Chapter 3 No.3

The days leading up to the engagement party were a slow, grinding torture.

Elizebeth moved through the house like a wraith, her existence a quiet, persistent ache. The tinnitus in her ear was a constant companion, a low hum of misery.

She saw them everywhere. Floyd and Jaylah, a constant tableau of burgeoning domestic bliss.

She heard them laughing from the dining room as she ate her own meal alone in the kitchen.

She saw Jaylah directing movers as new furniture arrived, replacing the pieces Elizebeth had carefully chosen years ago. Each discarded table and chair felt like a personal rejection.

The public displays were the worst.

One evening, Floyd hosted a dinner for some business partners. Elizebeth, by habit, had started to make her way to the dining room.

Jaylah stopped her in the hall, a hand on her arm. Her touch was light, but her grip was steel.

"Oh, darling, no," she said, her voice a stage whisper. "This is a business dinner. You understand." She smiled, a flash of white teeth. "Besides, I need you to be a dear and go pick up my dress from the tailor. It's for the party. It has to be perfect."

She pressed a claim check into Elizebeth's hand.

The message was clear: Jaylah was the partner. Elizebeth was the help.

Later that night, Elizebeth saw an article online. A society blog. There was a photo of Floyd and Jaylah from the dinner. He had his arm around her, his head bent toward hers, a possessive, proud smile on his face.

The caption read: "Power Couple Floyd Meyers and Jaylah Ryan, heiress to Ryan Holdings, solidify their alliance. A match made in corporate heaven."

Elizebeth closed the laptop, her fingers stiff. She was a footnote in her own life story.

The next day, she tried to speak to Floyd. She found him in his study, going over some architectural blueprints. It was a project she had helped him with, staying up late for weeks to build the initial models.

"Floyd," she began, her voice quiet. "I wanted to talk about the west wing..."

Jaylah appeared at the doorway, as if summoned. "Floyd, honey, I can't decide on the draperies. Could you come look?"

Floyd looked up, his expression annoyed, not at Jaylah, but at Elizebeth for the interruption.

"Elizebeth, we can discuss this later. This is important." He stood and walked to Jaylah, his hand immediately going to the small of her back. He didn't look back.

Her right to speak, to even exist in his professional space, had been revoked.

The final demolition of her dignity came two days before the party.

She was in the library, sketching in her notepad. It was the only thing that kept her sane.

Jaylah walked in, holding a small, beautifully wrapped box.

"A gift," Jaylah announced, placing it on the table in front of Elizebeth. "From Floyd and me."

Elizebeth looked at it, wary.

"Go on, open it," Jaylah urged.

Slowly, Elizebeth untied the ribbon. Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, was a state-of-the-art neural stabilizer. A device designed to mitigate the side effects of low-grade artificial interfaces. It would stop the humming.

It was a slap in the face disguised as an act of kindness.

"We heard about your... condition," Jaylah said, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Floyd felt responsible. He worries that your... instability... might be a distraction. We just want you to be well."

Instability. Distraction. The words were chosen to wound. They were calling her damaged goods.

Just then, Floyd walked in. He saw the open box in her hands.

His face softened with a look of manufactured concern. It was the face of a benevolent protector, a man caring for his troubled ward.

"Elizebeth," he said, his voice gentle. "Jaylah told me you've been unwell. I should have noticed sooner. Please, use this. I can't stand to see you in pain."

He was playing the hero, erasing his own culpability. He had given her this pain, and now he was offering a cheap, technological bandage to assuage his own guilt. To make her a more manageable problem.

This was the man she had saved. This was the man who had promised her forever.

A wave of nausea rolled over her.

She looked from his concerned face to Jaylah's triumphant one.

In her past life, she remembered him screaming at her, his face twisted with rage. "You're nothing but a curse!"

She remembered Jaylah, whispering to her friends as she was forced to kneel in the snow and repair a torn dress. "Look at the pathetic stray he keeps around."

They were a matched set.

Floyd reached out and put his hand on Jaylah's shoulder. It was a gesture of ownership, a small, reassuring squeeze he had used with Elizebeth a thousand times to make her feel safe.

Now, it was for another woman. He was giving away all the small intimacies that had once been theirs.

"We're so happy, Elizebeth," Floyd said, his eyes on Jaylah, shining with a love that felt utterly, horribly real. "I want you to be happy for us."

It was a demand. An order to witness their joy and bless it with her grace.

Elizebeth looked at the stabilizer in her hands. She looked at their smiling faces.

Something inside her finally, irrevocably, snapped.

She gave them the only thing she had left to give. A performance.

She forced a small, brittle smile.

"Of course," she said, her voice a hollow echo in the grand room. "I wish you all the best."

She stood up and walked away, leaving them to their perfect, gilded life. She had to get out. She had to get out before she suffocated.