Chapter 5

The days that followed were a quiet, hollow echo of a life. Corbett tried to act as if a switch had been flipped. Ivana was busy setting up her new "studio," so she was out of the penthouse more often. He tried to fill the silence with grand gestures.

He had my perfume organ professionally restored and returned, placing it back in its rightful spot in our room. The dark stain on the guest room carpet was expertly removed. He bought me a rare, vintage bottle of Guerlain perfume, a collector' s item worth a small fortune.

"I know it' s not the same," he said, placing the box in my numb hands. "But I wanted to show you I' m sorry."

I looked at him, at his handsome, earnest face, and felt nothing. No anger, no gratitude. Just a vast, empty distance. It was like watching a movie of a man I used to know.

"Thank you," I said, my voice a polite murmur. I placed the unopened box on my dresser. I would sell it later.

He seemed relieved by my placid acceptance. He thought my silence meant forgiveness. He was a fool. My silence was the calm before I unleashed my own storm.

He took me to dinner at all the finest restaurants, held my hand across the table, and talked about the future. A future where we would travel, maybe finally start a family. He spoke of a life that was now a fantasy, a script for a play in which I no longer wanted a part.

I played along. I smiled. I nodded. I let him hold my hand. But my mind was elsewhere, meticulously planning my departure.

I had already accepted Kain Solomon' s offer. My passport was renewed. My secret bank account, funded by the sale of jewelry Corbett had given me over the years, was healthy. I had a place to go. I had a new life waiting. I just had to survive a little longer.

The breaking point, the final, irrevocable severing, came at a charity art gala for the hospital where Ivana was a "patron." Corbett insisted I go. It was important for the family' s image, he said.

I knew it was a trap.

Ivana was the star of the evening. She was unveiling her first "art piece" -a large, abstract painting. She stood on a small stage next to it, draped in a glittering gown, with Corbett standing proudly by her side.

"I couldn' t have done this without my brother-in-law, Corbett," she said into the microphone, her voice trembling with emotion. "He gave me the strength to find my artistic voice after so much tragedy."

Then, her eyes found me in the crowd.

"And I must also thank my sister-in-law, Jenna," she said, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "Her... unique and powerful emotions have been a profound source of inspiration for me."

The spotlight swung to find me. The crowd murmured, their eyes on me. I was frozen, a specimen under a microscope.

She gestured to the painting. It was a chaotic swirl of dark, angry colors-blacks, deep purples, and violent slashes of blood red. And in the center, almost lost in the mess, was a single, shattered glass bottle.

It was a portrait of my grief. My pain, put on display for public consumption. She had turned my most private agony into her public triumph.

I felt the blood drain from my face. I wanted to run, to disappear, but my feet were leaden.

"Isn' t it breathtaking?" Ivana cooed. "I call it 'Shattered Memory.' "

I turned to Corbett, my eyes pleading with him. Do something. Say something. Stop this.

He looked from the painting to me, a flicker of understanding, of horror, in his eyes. For a second, I thought he would.

But then he looked at Ivana, at her triumphant, smiling face, and his expression hardened into one of resignation. He stepped forward and took the microphone.

"Ivana' s talent is a gift," he said to the silent, watching crowd. His voice was strong, unwavering. "She transforms pain into beauty. We are so proud of her."

He didn' t defend me. He endorsed her. He validated her cruelty in front of everyone we knew. He held my heart in his hands and publicly, deliberately, crushed it.

The applause was deafening.

I turned and walked away. No one tried to stop me. I pushed through the crowd, out the grand doors of the ballroom, and into the cold night air. I didn' t look back. There was nothing left to look back for.