Chapter 6 No.6

The rain had soaked through her dress by the time she went back inside, but she didn't care. She felt strangely, fiercely alive.

She spent the rest of the party avoiding everyone, a ghost at the feast. She saw Keenan Costa once more across the room. He gave her a small, questioning look, but she just offered a faint nod and turned away.

She had to get through this night alone.

Her flight was booked for the next day. A late afternoon departure. It coincided with a charity brunch Floyd and Jaylah were hosting at the house. A final, fated piece of timing. Her escape would happen while they were distracted by their own glittering world.

The next morning, she did a final sweep of her room. There wasn't much left. Just a box of art supplies she intended to ship and a few personal documents.

She found one last item tucked in the back of a drawer: a small, velvet box. Inside was the simple engagement ring Floyd had given her in college, long before the money and the power.

She stared at it for a moment, then closed the lid.

There was a sharp knock on her door. It was Floyd.

He saw the packed boxes and the nearly empty room. The denial he'd been clinging to finally shattered.

"You're really leaving," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

His eyes landed on the velvet box in her hand. "What's that?"

"Nothing," she said, moving to put it in her purse.

He stepped forward, his hand closing over hers. "Let me see."

His grip was tight. She let her hand fall open. He took the box, opened it, and stared at the ring.

"You're taking this with you?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I was going to leave it," she said. Which was a lie. She had been planning to sell it.

"Good," he said, his jaw tight. "It belongs to the past." He snapped the box shut. "I'm clearing out all the old things. My life is with Jaylah now. We're moving forward."

He was telling her, one last time, that there was no place for her in his future.

"I understand," she said.

A flicker of frustration crossed his face. He wanted a reaction. Tears. Pleading. Something to reaffirm his power over her. She gave him nothing.

"I need one last thing from you," she said, her voice steady.

He looked at her, wary. "What is it?"

"My mother's medical bills. The final payment is due. I need you to authorize the transfer." It was a request she had made a dozen times over the years. A part of their routine. His money, her family's survival.

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he shook his head.

"No."

The word was cold. Final.

"Jaylah will be handling the family finances now," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "All expenses will go through her. You'll have to ask her."

He was severing the last practical tie between them. He was handing the power over her family's well-being to the one person he knew would use it against her. It was a final, calculated cruelty.

Elizebeth felt the floor drop out from under her. But her face remained a mask of calm.

"I see," she said. "Thank you for clarifying."

He left her then, standing alone in the empty room.

That afternoon, while the sounds of the charity brunch drifted up from downstairs, Elizebeth finished her last piece of art in that house.

It was a small canvas.

She painted a dark, opulent room. In the center, a man with a handsome, cruel face stood beside a woman in a glittering white dress. Their faces were masks of triumphant joy.

In the corner of the painting, almost lost in the shadows, was a third figure. A pale, faceless girl in a green dress, turning to walk out of the frame.

She titled it, "The End of the Affair."

She left the painting on the empty easel in her room, facing the door. A final statement. A closing chapter.

She was grabbing her suitcase when the door opened again.

It was Floyd. He was drunk.

The polite façade from the brunch was gone, replaced by a raw, desperate anger. His tie was loosened, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Where do you think you're going?" he slurred, blocking her path.

"I'm leaving, Floyd."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "You can't."

He stumbled towards her, backing her against the wall. The smell of expensive whiskey was overpowering.

"You can't just walk away," he whispered, his face close to hers. He reached out, his hand tangling in her hair, and pulled her head back.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her numbness. This was wrong. This was dangerous.

He leaned in, his lips crashing against hers. It wasn't a kiss. It was an act of possession. A brutal, clumsy claiming of something he thought he still owned.

She struggled, pushing against his chest, but he was too strong.

He pulled back, his breath hot against her cheek. His eyes were unfocused, filled with a pain she didn't understand.

And then he said the name that destroyed what little was left of her.

"Jaylah," he breathed, his eyes closed in a moment of drunken ecstasy. "Don't leave me."

The world stopped.

The tinnitus in her ear screamed into a deafening roar.

She was a substitute. A stand-in. A warm body to be used when the real object of his affection wasn't there.

All the pain, all the sacrifice, all the love she had poured into this man... had been for nothing. She wasn't even a memory. She was just a ghost he was mistaking for someone else.

In that moment, whatever lingering, microscopic ember of feeling she might have had for him was extinguished forever.

There was nothing left but ice and ash.