Chapter 4 Chapter 4

The following week was a study in detachment. Doris began building her walls.

She started with her phone. She went through her contacts and systematically blocked the numbers of Isadora, Hildur, and every other member of the Arnold clan who had ever sent her a pitying or contemptuous text.

It was a small act, but it felt significant. She was curating her own silence.

The digital attacks, however, found new avenues. Gigi, knowing her personal number was likely blocked, took a different approach. She sent an email to the generic household address, one Doris still had to monitor for bills and appointments.

The subject line was "Wedding Plans!"

The email contained a link to a cloud album. Doris's finger hovered over it. She knew she shouldn't look.

She clicked it anyway.

It was a collection of photos. Gigi and Emit at a famous chapel in Las Vegas. Gigi trying on white dresses, her face alight with joy. Emit standing beside her, his expression placid, almost bored, but his presence was a clear endorsement.

They were planning a wedding. While still married to her.

Doris stared at the images, feeling nothing. The part of her that could be hurt by this was gone. It had been burned away, leaving only a cold, hard scar.

She closed the laptop. She did not delete the email. She left it there, a testament to its own impotence.

A few days later, she was having lunch with a distant cousin, one of the few relatives who hadn't completely cut her off.

"You and Emit always seemed so perfect," the cousin said wistfully, stirring her iced tea. "I remember at your wedding, even with everything that happened with Everleigh, the way he looked at you... it was like he was vowing to protect you from the world."

Doris picked up her glass of water. The ice clinked.

"He was," Doris said, her voice even. "He was protecting me from the world of his own making."

The cousin looked confused.

"I'm divorcing him," Doris added, placing the glass down with a soft click.

The statement was stark. Final. There was no room for discussion. The cousin's mouth opened, then closed.

The conversation shifted to safer topics.

But the cousin's words echoed in her mind that night. Protect you from the world.

She fell into a restless sleep and dreamed.

She was a teenager again, in the Arnold's sprawling garden. Emit was there. He was smiling at her, the way he used to. He handed her a perfect, white rose. "For you, Doris. Always." The sun was warm on her skin. It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness.

Then the dream shifted. The rose in her hand sprouted thorns, sharp and black. They pierced her skin. Blood welled up, crimson against the white petals. Emit's face hardened. "You ruined it," he said, his voice turning cold. "You ruin everything."

She woke up with a gasp, her heart pounding. The sheets were damp with sweat.

The dream wasn't a memory. It was a diagnosis.

The problem wasn't just that he had stopped loving her. The problem was that he had given her hope in the first place. He had built a beautiful cage and convinced her it was a sanctuary. The cruelty wasn't the cage itself, but the memory of the brief, wonderful moment before the door had been locked.

The next morning, she knew what she had to do.

She went into the attic. A place of dust and forgotten things. In the corner was a trunk filled with her old art supplies. Canvases, paints, brushes. Things she hadn't touched in years.

She pulled out a large, blank canvas.

She found one last thing to be dealt with. A box of his old shirts she had kept. Soft, worn cotton that still smelled faintly of him. She used to wear them to sleep, a pathetic attempt to feel close to him.

She took the box to her car. She drove to a charity donation bin across town. She pushed the box through the metal slot. It landed with a soft thud.

She felt nothing. No regret. No sadness. Just... lighter.

When she returned to the house, Emit was waiting for her in the foyer.

He held up her car keys.

"Where were you?" he demanded.

"Out," she said.

His eyes narrowed. "I called you. You didn't answer."

"My phone was off."

He took a step closer. He smelled of expensive cologne and frustration. "I have been looking for you. I thought..." He stopped, seeming to catch himself.

"You thought what?" she asked, her voice calm.

"It doesn't matter," he snapped. He tossed her keys onto the hall table. They landed with a clatter. "Don't do it again."

He looked at the empty space in her hands. "What were you carrying?"

"A box of old clothes," she said. "I donated them."

He frowned. "My shirts?"

She didn't answer. She just looked at him.

A flicker of something-annoyance? hurt?-crossed his face. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"They were just old shirts," he said, his voice dismissive. "Worthless."

He turned and walked away.

Worthless.

The word hung in the air.

He had just given her the final reason she needed. The final confirmation that nothing she valued had any meaning to him.

She went back to the attic. She set up the blank canvas.

She was ready to paint her farewell.