Chapter 2 No.2

The engagement ring felt like a foreign object on her finger.

It was a three-carat diamond, flawless and cold, a symbol of her place in Cohen's world. He had given it to her at a lavish party, a public declaration. Now, it felt like a brand.

Jaycee stood in the bathroom of her mother's house. The face in the mirror was a stranger's-pale, with eyes that were too wide, too dark.

She twisted the ring. It didn't want to come off. Her fingers were swollen from crying, from clenching her fists.

She ran cold water over her hand, the chill seeping into her skin. She twisted again, harder this time. The diamond scraped against her knuckle.

It slid free.

She held it in her palm. It was heavy. An anchor.

She didn't throw it. She didn't flush it. She walked into the living room and placed it carefully on the center of the mantelpiece, right next to a dusty photo of her parents on their wedding day.

A payment. For the life he had taken.

The next two days were a blur of methodical tasks. Each one was a small act of erasure.

She started with her mother's clothes. She opened the closet and the scent of lavender and mothballs-Eunice's scent-filled the small bedroom.

Jaycee buried her face in a soft wool sweater and breathed it in, a strangled sob escaping her throat. She allowed herself that one moment.

Then, she began to fold.

She sorted everything into piles. Keep. Donate. Discard.

The keep pile was small. A faded floral apron. A well-worn copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. A small silver locket with a picture of a baby Jaycee inside.

She packed them into a single box, taping it shut with firm, deliberate movements. She wrote 'MEMORIES' on the top in black marker. A tomb for a life.

She moved on to the photographs. Albums filled with school pictures, holidays, birthdays.

She found one taken last summer. The three of them. Her, her mother, and Cohen, standing on the porch of this very house. Her mother was beaming, her arm linked through Cohen's. Cohen was smiling his easy, charming smile, his hand resting on Jaycee's waist.

They looked like a family.

It was a lie.

Jaycee's hand was steady as she picked up a pair of scissors from her mother's sewing kit.

She didn't rip the photo. That was too emotional, too messy.

She carefully, precisely, cut Cohen out of the picture. She trimmed the edges until it was just her and her mother, smiling under the summer sun. A clean, sharp line separated his world from hers.

She slipped the new, smaller photo into her wallet.

She threw the sliver of paper with Cohen's smiling face into the trash.

That night, her phone buzzed. A notification from Instagram. Hillary had posted again.

It was a video this time. A short clip of her and Cohen on a ski lift. He was laughing, his arm draped around her shoulders. He leaned in and kissed her on the temple. It wasn't a friendly kiss. It was possessive. Familiar.

The caption was a single heart emoji.

Jaycee watched it once. Twice.

The pain didn't feel sharp. It was a dull, heavy pressure in her chest, confirming everything she now knew. It was the final nail.

This wasn't a new betrayal. This was a long-standing truth she had refused to see. He wasn't just comforting a friend. He was with the person he chose.

She felt a strange sense of calm. The pain was a compass. It told her she was heading in the right direction.

She stood up and walked to the fireplace. She looked at the ring, glittering coldly on the mantel.

It was an insult. A joke.

She picked it up. This time, she didn't hesitate. She walked to the back door, opened it, and threw the ring as hard as she could into the darkness of the overgrown backyard.

She didn't hear it land.

It was just gone. Swallowed by the night.