Chapter 2 No.2

The dress Coleman had picked out for her was laid across the bed. It was a pale, dove-gray sheath. Subdued. Elegant. The uniform of a supportive, grieving wife.

Blair looked at it for a long moment. It was a symbol of her role, of the box he had put her in.

She walked past it, into her large walk-in closet.

In the back, behind rows of sensible, tasteful clothes, was a section she rarely touched. It was her old life. The clothes she wore when she was building her own company, before Coleman.

She pulled out a dress.

It was blood-red. Silk. It clung to every curve, with a neckline that plunged daringly low and a slit that went high up her thigh. It was a declaration. A battle cry in fabric.

She stripped off her clothes and put it on. The silk felt cool and alien against her skin.

Next, she sat at her vanity. She opened a drawer and pushed aside the neutral palettes Coleman preferred. She found a tube of lipstick. A deep, defiant crimson. She applied it with a steady hand.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Her eyes were hard, her mouth a slash of color. There was no softness left in her face.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Coleman.

"Casey is ready. Don't be late."

Blair picked up her clutch, the red of her nails stark against the black leather.

Before leaving the room, she stopped at the wall of photos. It was a curated history of their life together. Wedding photos, vacation snapshots, pictures of Leo's first steps.

In the center was a large, framed portrait taken just after Leo was born. Coleman was holding the baby, beaming at the camera. Blair was beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, her smile tired but radiant. She had believed in that moment. Believed in their family.

She lifted the heavy frame off the wall.

She walked into the adjoining bathroom, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply on the marble floor. Without hesitation, she turned the frame over and smashed the glass against the edge of the countertop.

Shards rained into the sink.

She carefully picked out the photograph, her fingers avoiding the jagged edges of the broken glass. She looked at her own smiling face, at the blind, trusting love in her eyes. She felt a pang, not of sadness, but of pity for that woman.

She took the photo and tore it in half. Then in quarters. Then into smaller and smaller pieces, until the happy family was nothing but a pile of confetti in her hands.

She dropped the pieces into the toilet and flushed.

She watched them swirl and disappear. A burial.

Downstairs, Coleman was waiting by the door. He was adjusting his tie. When he saw her, he froze. His eyes raked over her, from the red dress to the red lips. His face darkened with fury.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he demanded. "I told you to be discreet. You look like..."

He stopped, but she knew the word.

"Like what, Coleman?" she asked, her voice silky smooth.

Before he could answer, Casey appeared at the top of the stairs. She was dressed in virginal white, her makeup soft and dewy. She looked like an angel. A fallen one.

Her eyes widened when she saw Blair. A flicker of triumph, quickly masked by concern.

"Blair," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Are you sure you're feeling up to this? You look... flushed."

"I've never felt better," Blair said, her smile not reaching her eyes.

The party was a nightmare of flashing cameras and fake smiles. It was held at a chic downtown art gallery. Casey, a rising social media "artist," was being celebrated.

Blair played her part. She stood beside Casey, a fixed smile on her face. She let Casey grip her arm, a public display of sisterly affection. She answered the reporters' questions with practiced ease.

"It was a terrifying moment for all of us," Blair said, her voice calm and measured. "But thankfully, Leo is perfectly fine. We're just so grateful. Casey has been beside herself with guilt, but it was a simple mistake. We all make them."

Coleman watched her, a mixture of approval and suspicion in his eyes. He was pleased she was following the script, but the red dress was a discordant note he couldn't ignore.

Later, while Casey was holding court, a waiter offered Blair a glass of champagne. Her head was starting to ache. She knew she shouldn't drink, but she took it anyway.

She saw Coleman across the room, watching her. He was talking to one of his business partners, but his gaze was locked on her. He lifted his own glass in a mock toast.

A silent command. Drink it. Play your part.

She knew what he was doing. He wanted her slightly foggy, more pliable. He had done this before, at countless business dinners where he needed her to be charming but not too sharp.

Blair met his gaze. She brought the glass to her lips. The bubbles tickled her nose. She thought of the poison in their marriage, the slow, corrosive drip of his manipulations.

This champagne was nothing.

She took a long, slow sip, never breaking eye contact with her husband. The cool liquid slid down her throat.

She would drink his poison. And she would let it make her stronger.