Chapter 2 No.2

The next morning, Adriana walked into the master bathroom and saw it.

A bottle of cheap, drugstore-brand lotion sat on her marble vanity, next to her expensive French perfumes. It was a garish pink bottle. It didn't belong.

Jovita's. It was a small invasion. A flag planted on conquered territory.

Adriana picked it up, her fingers tightening around the plastic. She walked to the trash can and dropped it in. The sound was small, but final.

She spent the morning in her dressing room, a space that was entirely her own. She opened a cedar trunk at the foot of her chaise lounge. Inside were relics from her life before Gifford: college sweatshirts, concert ticket stubs, photos of her with friends, laughing and carefree.

Her eyes fell on a photo of a younger her, arm slung around a young man with a wide, easy grin. Alexzander. They were on a beach, squinting in the sun. Happy.

She had put this part of herself away, convinced it had no place in the orderly world of the Stantons.

She closed the lid. She wouldn't need these memories anymore. That life was over. But the life she was living now was also ending.

She went downstairs. The house was quiet. Gifford had left for the office. The staff moved silently, their faces carefully neutral.

She found the book. The Stanton Family: A Guide to Conduct and Legacy.

She carried it to the large, unused fireplace in the formal library. She remembered Gifford's words as he gave it to her. "This is who we are, Adriana. This is who you will become."

He had been so proud.

She opened the book. Chapter 3: The Stanton Wife - On Charity and Discretion. A Stanton wife shows compassion, but maintains a dignified distance. She does not allow sentiment to cloud judgment or compromise the family's position.

He was not even following his own rules.

Adriana knelt. She took a lighter from a silver box on the mantelpiece.

The first page curled, turning black at the edges before catching flame. She dropped the book into the grate.

She watched as the fire consumed the embossed leather cover, the crisp pages, the rigid rules that had governed her life. The smoke smelled acrid, like a bitter truth finally being spoken.

She stayed there until it was nothing but a pile of gray ash.

Later that day, she was in the kitchen instructing the chef on the week's menus when Jovita appeared.

"Oh, Adriana," Jovita said, her voice bright. She wasn't calling her Mrs. Stanton anymore. "Gifford just called. He said his grandmother is coming for dinner tonight. He wants me to make her favorite dessert. The one my mother used to make for her. He said... he said it would mean the world to her."

Jovita held up a small, handwritten recipe card.

"He also said he forgot to tell you," Jovita added, a flicker of feigned sympathy in her eyes. "He's been so busy, poor thing."

Gifford had not forgotten. He had delegated. He had given Jovita a role in the household, a connection to his family's history, while making Adriana look like an uninformed outsider. It was a deliberate, calculated slight.

The ultimate injury came that evening.

The Stanton Matriarch, a formidable woman with eyes that missed nothing, was seated at the head of the dining table. Gifford was at her right, Jovita at her left. Adriana was seated further down, next to an empty chair.

Jovita served the dessert, a simple apple crumble. The matriarch took a bite and her stern face softened.

"Just like your mother used to make," she said, her voice thick with nostalgia. "She was a wonderful woman. So brave."

Gifford beamed, placing a hand over Jovita's. "Jovita has the same heart, Grandmother."

Adriana felt invisible.

After dinner, as the matriarch was preparing to leave, she turned to Adriana.

"Gifford tells me you were... hesitant to have Jovita here," the old woman said, her voice low and sharp.

"I was concerned about propriety," Adriana answered, her own voice cool.

"Propriety does not repay a life debt," the matriarch said. "Jovita's mother saved me from a terrible accident. This family is forever in her debt. We will protect her daughter. Do you understand, Adriana? We will protect her."

The message was clear. Jovita was under the family's protection. Adriana was not.

Adriana simply nodded.

That night, she went up to her bedroom alone. The room was dark. She flicked on the light.

She froze.

The bed-her bed-was a disaster. A large, dark red splash of wine stained the white duvet. A broken glass lay shattered on the floor.

Her jewelry box was open on the dresser, its contents spilled across the surface.

And on her pillow, nestled against the silk, was a single, long, dark hair.

It was not hers. It was Jovita's.

This was not an accident. This was a declaration of war. A deliberate violation of the most intimate space in her life.

Adriana's breath caught in her chest. For a moment, she couldn't move.

Then, a strange calm settled over her. The shock turned into something hard and clear.

She walked over to the bed and picked up a shard of the broken wine glass. She closed her hand around it, not caring as the sharp edge bit into her palm.

The pain was real. It was sharp. It was a confirmation.

This was the end. There was no going back. No fixing this.

She needed to get out.