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 at a gala, his arm possessively around her waist. A candid shot of him sleeping in his hospital bed, her hand holding his.

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. 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, looking fragile, human. Hope was etched into every line of that drawing.

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.

The days leading up to the party became a masterclass in psychological warfare.

Later that day, she came back to her room to find Jaylah inside, standing in front of her 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."

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."

Jaylah's smile faltered at her quiet compliance. This wasn't the reaction she wanted. She swept out of the room, her heels clicking angrily.

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. Floyd knew that. He had forgotten. Or he no longer cared. It was the ultimate proof of her irrelevance.

She walked to the kitchen, a wave of dizziness washing over her as the rich, earthy scent filled the air. She brewed the coffee, her hands steady. The aroma burned in her nostrils.

Floyd and Jaylah were sitting close together on a white wicker sofa. She placed the tray on the table.

"Your coffee," she said.

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 a final, burning seal on her decision to leave this house and never look back.