Chapter 2

The next morning, Roxanne had already taken over.

Her clothes hung in the master closet. Her perfume sat on the bathroom counter. Her shoes were lined up neatly by the front door—right next to Damien's.

Mine had been moved to the hallway outside the guest room.

I didn't react. I simply moved my things quietly and kept my head down.

But Roxanne wasn't satisfied with silence. She wanted submission.

"Aurelia, could you make me a latte? Oat milk, no sugar." She lounged on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. "Oh, and Damien likes his eggs scrambled with chives in the morning. You should know that by now."

I did know. I'd made his breakfast every morning for two years.

I made the latte without a word and set it on the table.

Roxanne took a sip, then grimaced. "Too hot." She set it down and pushed it toward me. "Make another one."

I looked at her for a long moment. Then I picked up the cup, walked to the kitchen, and poured it down the sink.

I made another one. Slightly cooler this time.

She took a sip and smiled. "See? That wasn't so hard. You're actually pretty good at this. Maybe when I officially become Mrs. Ashford, I'll hire you as our housekeeper."

I said nothing. I just turned and walked away.

Behind me, I heard her laugh softly.

When Damien came downstairs, he kissed Roxanne's forehead and sat beside her. He didn't look for me. He didn't ask where I was. It was as though I had already disappeared.

Later that afternoon, I was packing a small bag when a wave of nausea hit me. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up.

When I came out, Roxanne was standing in the hallway, arms crossed.

"Are you sick?" she asked, but there was no concern in her voice. Just curiosity—the kind a cat has before it bats at a trapped mouse.

"Stomach flu," I said.

She studied me for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, don't spread it. I have a sensitive immune system."

That evening, Damien called me into his study.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. He didn't look up from his papers.

I sat.

"Roxanne mentioned you looked unwell today. I'm going to have the family doctor come check on you tomorrow."

For a split second, something flickered in my chest. Was that concern?

"I don't want you collapsing or causing a scene before the contract ends," he added. "It would complicate things."

The flicker died.

"I'm fine," I said. "I don't need a doctor."

He finally looked up. "It wasn't a suggestion."

I held his gaze. The man I had loved for two years stared back at me like I was an item on his to-do list.

"Fine," I whispered.

I stood and walked to the door. But before I left, I paused.

"Damien, if I left tomorrow—right now—would you even notice?"

He didn't answer. He had already gone back to his papers.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, pressing my hand to my stomach.

"It's okay," I murmured to the lives inside me. "We don't need him. We never did."

But when I returned to the guest room, my hidden phone was gone. And in its place was a note in Roxanne's handwriting:

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