The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

Cristina straightened the silk tie on the table for the third time. It was a dark navy, Jackson's favorite, chosen specifically to match the suit he wore when they first met. The table was set for two. The candles had burned down an inch, the wax dripping onto the silver holders.

She looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty. He was an hour late.

The sound of the elevator pinging echoed through the empty penthouse. Cristina stood up, smoothing the front of her dress. It was a simple beige piece, something that made her blend into the walls, just the way the Floyd family preferred.

The heavy front door opened. A gust of cold November air rushed in, chilling her bare arms. Jackson walked in. He didn't look at her. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the entrance, the metal clatter sharp and loud in the silence.

"You're late," Cristina said softly. She walked toward him, reaching out to take his coat.

Jackson stepped back. His shoulder brushed past her hand, avoiding her touch as if she were contagious.

"I'm not hungry," he said. He walked past the dining room table without glancing at the dinner she had spent four hours preparing.

Cristina's hand remained in mid-air for a second before she dropped it to her side. She followed him into the living room. "It's our anniversary, Jackson. Five years."

He stopped. He turned to look at her, and his eyes were empty. There was no anger, no annoyance. Just a flat, terrifying indifference.

"I know what day it is, Tina."

His phone buzzed against the mahogany surface of the side table. The screen lit up. The name Davida flashed in bright white letters.

Jackson reached for the phone immediately. The hardness in his face melted away. His thumb hovered over the screen, his expression softening into something pained and tender. He didn't answer it, but the hesitation spoke louder than any conversation.

He set the phone back down, face down this time. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick Manila envelope. He slid it across the coffee table toward her.

"We need to talk," he said.

Cristina looked at the envelope. She didn't need to open it to know what it was. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Her lungs worked, but no oxygen reached her blood.

"Is this it?" she asked. Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

"Davida is getting worse," Jackson said. He didn't sit down. He stood over her, imposing and distant. "The doctors say stress is a major factor. She needs stability. She needs... she needs to know I'm there for her. Officially."

"So I'm the stress," Cristina said.

"You're the obstacle," Jackson corrected. "It's been five years, Tina. We had an agreement. You knew this wasn't a love match. You were a placeholder until she recovered."

Cristina looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She clasped them together to stop the tremors. "I ran your house. I supported your business. I gave you everything."

"You lived in a penthouse and spent my money," Jackson said, his voice cold and transactional. "Don't pretend you were a martyr, Tina. You were an investment. A proprietary asset. But let's be honest-your designs, your input, they all belong to Floyd Enterprises. Without my platform, without the Floyd name backing you, you are nothing. You leave with what you came with. Which is nothing."

He tapped the envelope.

"Sign it. The terms are standard."

Cristina felt a ringing in her ears. It was a high-pitched whine that drowned out the hum of the refrigerator in the distance. She looked at him, really looked at him, searching for the man she had saved five years ago. He wasn't there.

"She's my stepsister, Jackson. She's made my life hell since I was seven."

"She is sick," Jackson snapped. "And she loves me. And I owe her my life. Something you wouldn't understand."

He checked his watch. "I have to go. She's waiting for me at the hospital."

Cristina picked up the pen lying next to the papers. The plastic felt cold and slippery in her sweating palm. She realized then that begging would only make him despise her more. He didn't see a wife. He saw an employee he was firing.

She opened the folder. Divorce Decree. The words were bold and black.

She signed her name. Cristina Powell.

The ink was still wet when Jackson reached down and took the folder. He didn't check the signature. He just wanted it done.

"You have until tomorrow morning to vacate," he said. He turned his back on her and walked to the door.

"Happy anniversary, Jackson," she whispered.

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged automatically.

Cristina stood alone in the center of the room. She looked at the view of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city lights blurred as tears finally welled up, burning her eyes.

She reached for her left hand. She twisted the diamond band on her ring finger. It slid off easily. She placed it on the coffee table, right where the divorce papers had been.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. A text message from Davida.

Finally. Don't forget to leave the keys.

Cristina stared at the screen until the backlight turned off. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. The sadness in her chest began to harden into something sharp. She turned away from the window and walked toward the bedroom.

The suitcase was old. One of the wheels had a tendency to stick, dragging across the hardwood floor with a scratching sound that grated on Cristina's nerves. She pulled it from the back of the closet, blowing off a layer of dust.

She didn't pack the gowns. She didn't pack the jewelry Jackson had bought her for public appearances. She took jeans, t-shirts, and the thick wool sweaters she wore when she was alone.

In the corner of the walk-in closet, hidden behind a row of winter coats, sat a black sketchbook. Its cover was worn, the edges fraying.

Cristina reached for it. Her fingers brushed the leather. This book contained the last five years of her soul. Every design that had saved Floyd Enterprises from bankruptcy started on these pages.

She hesitated. Leaving it felt like leaving a limb behind. But taking it felt like stealing from a life she no longer owned. She placed it at the bottom of the suitcase, buried beneath denim.

The doorbell rang. It wasn't the melodic chime of a guest, but the sharp, insistent buzz of service.

Cristina walked to the foyer. She opened the door to find Jackson's personal assistant, a young woman named Sarah who always looked at Cristina with a mixture of pity and disdain.

"Mr. Floyd sent this," Sarah said. She didn't say hello. She thrust a clipboard forward.

Cristina looked at the document. Non-Disclosure Agreement.

"He wants to ensure privacy regarding the family matters," Sarah said, popping her gum. "Standard procedure for... ex-partners."

Cristina laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "He thinks I want to talk about this? He thinks I'm proud of being discarded?"

Sarah took a step back, surprised by the edge in Cristina's voice. "Just sign it, Mrs... Ms. Powell. Or he cuts off the severance check."

"There is no severance check," Cristina said. "I signed the prenup. I get nothing."

"Oh," Sarah said. Her smirk returned. "Well, sign it anyway. Or he'll sue you for emotional distress caused to Ms. Powell."

Cristina grabbed the clipboard. She scanned the bold clauses: Defamation, Trade Secrets, Financial Privacy. Her eyes narrowed. She knew the law better than Jackson gave her credit for. An NDA could silence a wife, but it couldn't cover up criminal acts. It couldn't protect against felonies. She uncapped the pen. Let him think he's safe, she thought. This piece of paper won't save him from the truth. She signed it with a flourish, the pen tearing through the paper slightly. She shoved it back at Sarah.

"Get out."

Sarah turned on her heel and practically ran to the elevator.

Cristina closed the door and leaned against it. Her phone pinged with an email notification. She checked it. It was from Bella Vance, a contact in Paris.

The position at the institute is yours if you want it. We start next month.

Cristina typed a reply. I'll be there.

Then, another notification. A text from the bank. Joint Account ending in 4590: Frozen. Access Denied.

He was cutting off her oxygen. He wanted her penniless and stranded.

Cristina walked back to the bedroom. She went to the nightstand and pulled out the bottom drawer. She felt around underneath it until her fingers found a small piece of tape. She peeled it back.

A black debit card fell into her palm.

It was the account Jackson didn't know about. The account where "Sunny"-the anonymous designer-deposited her freelance royalties from international clients who didn't care about the Floyd name.

She wasn't destitute. She was rich. But Jackson couldn't know that yet.

She called Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, to arrange for boxes, then walked into the living room. A massive portrait of her and Jackson hung over the fireplace. It was from their wedding day. He looked bored. She looked hopeful.

Cristina went to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of kitchen shears.

She walked up to the painting. Without hesitating, she jammed the point of the scissors into the canvas, right between their faces.

The sound of ripping fabric was satisfying. She sliced down, then across. She cut her own face out of the frame, leaving Jackson standing alone against a jagged white background.

She crumpled the piece of canvas with her face on it and threw it into the trash can.

Outside, the sky opened up. Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the city lights into streaks of gray and yellow. It was a cold, miserable night.

She wrapped her trench coat tighter around herself. The apartment felt like a tomb now. Empty. Echoing.

The front door lock tumbled.

Cristina froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. He wasn't supposed to be back until morning.

Jackson pushed the door open. He was soaking wet, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked wild, unlike his usual composed self. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the slashed painting, then on the suitcase by the door.

"What the hell did you do?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"I'm leaving," Cristina said. Her voice was steady, though her knees felt like water. "Just like you asked."

Jackson kicked a cardboard box out of his way. It slid across the floor and hit the wall with a thud. "I didn't tell you to destroy the house."

He walked toward her, shedding his wet coat. As he pulled it off, a stack of photographs fell from the inside pocket. They scattered across the polished floor like a deck of cards.

Cristina looked down. She couldn't help it.

They were photos of Jackson and Davida. In Paris. In Milan. In Tokyo. Dates stamped in the corner corresponded to the weeks Jackson had been away on "crucial business trips."

She crouched down and picked one up. It was a close-up of them laughing, their foreheads touching. On the back, in Jackson's handwriting: My reason for breathing.

"Give me those," Jackson snapped. He lunged forward and snatched the photo from her hand.

"You took her with you," Cristina said. She felt sick. A physical wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. "All those times I was here, managing the company accounts, handling the press... you were on vacation with her."

"She needed treatments," Jackson lied. His face flushed. "Specialists in Europe."

"In front of the Eiffel Tower?" Cristina pointed to another photo on the floor. "Is that where the clinic is?"

Jackson didn't answer. He shoved the photos into his pocket. "It doesn't matter. It's over."

Cristina backed away from him. She bumped into the glass door leading to the terrace. Hanging there was a mobile she had made three years ago. A thousand paper cranes.

She had folded them when Jackson was in the hospital for pneumonia. Legend said a thousand cranes granted a wish. Her wish had been for him to live.

"You always hated these," Cristina said. She reached up and grabbed the main string.

"I hated them because they were clutter," Jackson said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her high-collared coat. "Just like those ridiculous sweaters you always wore, hiding in the corner, folding trash. You were always so... concealed. It was suffocating."

She yanked. The string snapped.

Paper birds rained down around them. Pink, blue, yellow. They fluttered to the floor, innocent and pathetic.

Jackson looked at the mess. "You're acting crazy."

"Crazy?" Cristina laughed. She grabbed a handful of the cranes. She walked to the kitchen counter where she had left the shredder she used for documents.

She turned it on. The machine whirred to life.

"These were my prayers for you," she said. She dropped the first crane into the teeth of the machine. It screeched as it chewed the paper.

"Don't," Jackson said. He looked disturbed.

Cristina kept feeding them in. One by one. Then handful by handful. The noise was deafening in the quiet apartment.

"Stop it!" Jackson shouted. He reached for her arm.

Cristina spun around, holding the shears she had used on the painting. She didn't raise them, but she held them tight.

"Don't touch me," she whispered. Her eyes were dead. "Trash belongs in the trash, Jackson."

Jackson recoiled. He looked at her as if he didn't recognize her. The submissive, quiet wife was gone.

Cristina turned back to the shredder. She grabbed the last pile of cranes. As she shoved them in, the sharp edge of the stiff paper sliced her index finger.

Blood welled up, bright red. It dripped onto the white pile of shredded paper.

She didn't flinch. She didn't put the finger in her mouth. She just watched the blood fall.

Jackson stared at the blood. He looked like he wanted to help, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The guilt was there, fleetingly, on his face, before he masked it with anger.

"Fine," he said. He grabbed his wet coat. "If you want to bleed, bleed alone."

He turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

Cristina waited until the elevator dinged. Then, her legs gave out. She slid down the kitchen cabinets until she hit the floor, sitting amongst the shredded remains of her prayers and the drops of her own blood.