Chapter 2 No.2

The next morning, Elizebeth began to dismantle her life in that house.

She started with the scarf.

It was cashmere, a soft dove gray, a gift from Floyd two years ago. He'd wrapped it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin. "To keep you warm," he had said.

She had worn it every winter since. A symbol of a love she thought was real.

Now, she took it from its hook, folded it neatly, and placed it in a cardboard box. It wasn't warmth. It was just wool.

Next were the photographs.

Dozens of them, tucked away in an album. Floyd and her in college, smiling on the campus lawn. Floyd and her at a gala, his arm possessively around her waist. A candid shot of him sleeping in his hospital bed, her hand holding his.

She looked at each picture, her face a blank mask. These were memories of a different woman, a woman who had let herself be drowned in a cold, dark lake.

She closed the album without sentiment and placed it in the box on top of the scarf. A coffin for a dead love.

There was one last thing.

She pulled a small sketchbook from under her bed. On the first page was a pencil drawing she had done the day after he woke from his coma.

He was sitting by the window, sunlight catching the side of his face. He looked fragile, human. There was no cruelty in his eyes yet, only a weary confusion. Hope was etched into every line of that drawing.

Her hope.

She stared at the drawing for a long time. She remembered the feeling of her heart swelling as she sketched, the certainty that their love had conquered even death.

What a fool she had been.

With steady hands, she tore the page from the sketchbook. She carried it to the small, unused fireplace in her room. She struck a match.

The flame caught the corner of the paper.

The face she had once loved contorted in the heat, turning black and curling into itself.

She watched until it was nothing but a fragile flake of ash. She felt a sharp, cleansing pain, like a necessary amputation.

Later that day, she came back to her room to find the door ajar.

Jaylah was inside.

She was standing in front of Elizebeth's closet, holding one of her dresses.

"This is all so... drab," Jaylah said, dropping the dress on the floor. She turned, a predatory smile on her face. "Floyd and I are redecorating. This wing will be my personal dressing area."

She was marking her territory.

Elizebeth said nothing. She bent down, picked up the dress, and folded it.

"Don't worry," Jaylah continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I'm sure Floyd will give you a generous severance package. For your years of... service."

Elizebeth looked at her, truly looked at her, for the first time. She saw the insecurity flickering beneath the expensive makeup, the desperate need for validation.

"Thank you for letting me know," Elizebeth said calmly.

Jaylah's smile faltered. She had expected tears, or anger. This quiet compliance unnerved her. She swept out of the room, her heels clicking angrily on the hardwood floors.

An hour later, a maid knocked on her door.

"Miss Ryan requests coffee in the sunroom, miss. She said to make her usual. A Sumatran blend."

Elizebeth's stomach clenched.

She was allergic to Sumatran coffee beans. Even the smell made her nauseous and gave her a headache. Floyd knew that. He had been the one to discover her allergy years ago, after she'd had a bad reaction at a café.

He had forgotten. Or he no longer cared.

It was the ultimate proof of her irrelevance. A small, cruel detail that spoke volumes.

She walked to the kitchen, her steps heavy. The air was thick with the rich, earthy scent of the coffee beans as they ground. A wave of dizziness washed over her.

She brewed the coffee.

She poured it into two delicate porcelain cups.

She carried the tray to the sunroom, her hands steady. The aroma burned in her nostrils, a prelude to the headache she knew would come.

Floyd and Jaylah were sitting close together on a white wicker sofa. They didn't look up as she approached.

She placed the tray on the table in front of them.

"Your coffee," she said.

Jaylah picked up her cup and took a delicate sip. "Perfect."

Floyd finally glanced at her. He frowned. "You look pale, Elizebeth. Are you feeling alright?"

The question was a reflex, a ghost of old concern.

"I'm fine," she said.

The lie was easy. She had been saying it for years.

But this time, it was the last time. The headache blooming behind her eyes was not just a physical pain. It was a confirmation. A final, burning seal on her decision to leave this house and never look back.