Chapter 3

A flicker of something unreadable-confusion, maybe even hurt-crossed Hudson' s face before he masked it with his usual confidence.

"Well, good," he said, forcing a smile. "I'll have the staff prepare the guest room for Hailey." He then turned to her and began listing her preferences in excruciating detail. "She likes silk sheets, the scent of lavender, and she only drinks sparkling water from a specific spring in Italy. Make sure the kitchen is stocked."

I listened, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest. He knew every single one of her ridiculous preferences, yet he probably couldn't remember if I preferred coffee or tea in the morning.

"I have work to do," I said, turning to leave the room. My own architectural studio was my only sanctuary in this house of lies.

"Aspen!" Hailey' s voice was a sweet, cloying whine. "Don't go. Stay and talk with me."

Hudson put an arm around her, comforting her. "Don't mind her, Hailey. She's always buried in her work." Then he looked at me, his tone hardening. "Aspen, be a good hostess. Hailey is our guest."

He said it as if he were talking about a stranger, not the woman who was secretly his wife, the woman who was sleeping in his bed. He expected me, the stand-in, to graciously cater to the original.

The bitterness was so sharp it almost choked me. I remembered when we first moved into this house. He had carried me over the threshold, whispering promises of a lifetime of love and protection. He swore no one would ever hurt me.

What a liar.

"You're right," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Hailey is your guest. You should arrange her room."

I walked away, not waiting for a response.

Hailey let out a small, wounded sound. "Hudson, she' s being so mean to me."

"It's just a phase," I heard him say, his voice full of indulgent affection. "She's just been spoiled by me. Don't worry, I' ll talk to her. You can stay in my room with me tonight."

I reached my studio and closed the door, the sound of their soft laughter echoing down the hall. I leaned against the cool wood, my eyes stinging with tears I refused to let fall.

I wasn' t the wife. I wasn' t even the other woman. Hailey was the wife, registered in the trust for years. I was the one who had come later, the one who had been used.

In this story, I was the mistress.

I wiped my eyes and squared my shoulders. I would not cry for him. Not anymore.

Later, I was in the small family shrine I had set up in a quiet alcove off the main library. Today was the anniversary of my grandmother' s death. She was the only family I had ever really known, the one who had raised me and encouraged my passion for architecture.

A sharp crash from the hallway made me jump.

I rushed out to see Hailey standing there, a smirk on her face. On the floor at her feet were the shattered remains of the porcelain urn that held my grandmother's ashes. The gray, gritty dust was scattered across the polished floor.

She had done it on purpose. Her eyes met mine, and the smirk widened into a triumphant sneer.

A white-hot rage, unlike anything I had ever felt, surged through me. Without thinking, I lunged forward and my hand connected with her cheek in a loud, sharp slap.

"How dare you?" I screamed, my voice raw with pain and fury. "She is dead! What did she ever do to you?"

Hudson came running at the sound of the commotion. He saw Hailey, a red mark blooming on her cheek, tears streaming down her face.

"Aspen, I'm so sorry!" Hailey cried, her voice a pathetic whimper. "I was just looking at it, and it slipped. I' ll pay for it! I' ll buy you a new one!"

Hudson didn't even look at me. He rushed to Hailey's side, his face a mask of fury directed entirely at me. He shoved me back, hard.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he roared, cradling Hailey protectively.

"She did it on purpose!" I yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the mess on the floor. "It' s my grandmother's ashes!"

Hudson glanced at the floor, then back at me, his eyes cold. "It's a broken vase, Aspen. Don't be so dramatic."

He had forgotten. He had forgotten that today was the day she died. He had stood with me at her funeral, holding my hand, and sworn on her grave that he would take care of me forever. Another lie.

"You want me to apologize?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. "For what? For defending the memory of my grandmother?"

"Don't be difficult," he snapped, his patience gone. He saw me as an obstacle, a problem to be managed so he could comfort his real love.

He decided to punish me. He grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall towards the small, windowless storage room in the basement.

"You'll stay in here until you learn to be obedient," he said, his voice like ice.

He knew I was claustrophobic. A childhood trauma I had confessed to him in a moment of vulnerability. He was using my deepest fear against me.

As he pushed me into the darkness, I finally understood. I wasn't part of his family. I wasn't even a guest. In this house, in his life, I was a prisoner. An outsider who could be punished and discarded at his whim.

The heavy door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place, sealing me in the suffocating dark.