Chapter 2

(Kelsey POV)

The private office of Mr. Randolph Sr., the patriarch and Don of the family, was steeped in the scent of aged leather and stale cigar smoke.

It was an aroma that once choked me with intimidation.

Now, I felt nothing but a cold, hollow calm.

I sat rigid in the stiff wooden chair, my hands folded demurely in my lap.

"I want to step down from the foundation," I stated, my voice steady.

The Don regarded me from behind the expanse of his massive oak desk.

He was an old man, weathered by power, yet his eyes remained sharp-a hawk scanning the brush for movement.

"Why?" he asked, the single word heavy with implication.

I didn't blink.

"I want to focus on my own career. My curation."

He leaned back, the leather of his chair groaning under the shift in weight.

He knew.

In this world, secrets were the only currency that mattered, and he was the richest man in town.

"Bennett has secured the line," the Don said finally. His voice was devoid of sympathy, clinical and cold.

I felt a phantom pain flare in my chest, a ghost of a heartbreak, but I kept my features masked in porcelain.

"Yes," I replied.

"Then your primary duty is relieved," he declared. "It is logical for you to shift your focus."

He picked up a fountain pen and scribbled a note on a legal pad, the scratching sound loud in the silence.

"However, you are still a Randolph. You represent us."

"I will be discreet," I promised.

He nodded, satisfied.

"I will have the lawyers draw up the papers for the separation of assets regarding the foundation. It is better this way. A quiet transition."

He wasn't talking about the foundation.

He was talking about my marriage.

He was facilitating my erasure.

"Thank you," I said, and rose to my feet.

I walked out of the office, a strange sensation washing over me-I felt lighter and heavier all at once.

I had just severed my own supply line.

I was refusing to play the role of the perfect wife for one second longer.

Two days later, I was summoned to the main estate.

A welcome party for the mother-to-be.

It wasn't a request; it was a command.

I walked down the long, vaulted hallway, the heels of my boots clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm against the marble.

I turned the corner and saw her.

Aria.

She was glowing, radiant with triumph.

She wore a white dress that clung possessively to her new curves.

She spotted me and smiled.

It was a sweet expression, technically, but her eyes danced with mockery.

"Kelsey," she cooed.

She drifted over and linked her arm through mine with feigned intimacy.

I tried to pull away, but she held on with surprising strength.

"I'm so glad you came," she whispered, leaning in close enough for me to smell her perfume.

"I know this must be hard for you."

She cast a pitying glance down at her own stomach.

"Being so... empty."

The cruelty was so casual, so effortlessly delivered, that it stole the breath from my lungs.

I jerked my arm back as if burned.

"Don't touch me," I snapped. My voice was low, shaking with visceral revulsion.

I looked at her face and felt physically ill.

I didn't see a rival.

I saw a parasite.

Aria's eyes widened, seizing the moment.

She took a step back.

Then, she threw herself backward.

It was a bad performance-theatrical and clumsy to my eyes-but effective enough for the audience she knew was watching.

She hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud and let out a piercing scream.

"My baby!" she shrieked, clutching her belly. "She pushed me!"

Doors flew open.

People poured into the hallway like water breaching a dam.

Aunts, cousins, soldiers.

They looked at Aria on the floor, sobbing, and then they looked at me.

Their eyes were filled with instant, lethal judgment.

"Jealousy makes women so ugly," I heard a voice whisper.

"She's trying to kill the heir," another hissed venomously.

I stood there, frozen in the spotlight of their scorn.

I didn't defend myself.

What was the point? The verdict had been delivered before the crime was even committed.

Then Bennett was there.

He pushed through the crowd, his face drained of color.

"Aria!"

He fell to his knees beside her, frantically gathering her into his arms.

"Are you hurt? Tell me where it hurts."

His voice was frantic, laced with a terror I had never heard him direct at me.

He looked up.

His eyes were black holes of hatred.

"Get out of my sight," he snarled.

He didn't ask what happened.

He didn't ask for my side.

He simply condemned me.

I looked at him-really looked at him-holding another woman while the family I had served for a decade spat on my name.

I didn't say a word.

I turned on my heel and walked away.

I went straight to my studio downtown.

I locked the door, bolted it, and turned off my phone.

I spent the next three days in isolation, restoring a 17th-century oil painting.

I focused entirely on the microscopic cracks in the canvas.

I told myself that if I could fix the painting, maybe I wouldn't have to think about how unfixable my own life had become.

But the family demanded attendance.

Sunday was the polo match.

I stood on the sidelines, wearing oversized dark glasses to hide my swollen, sleepless eyes.

Bennett rode out onto the field.

He was riding Obsidian.

My horse.

The black stallion I had raised from a foal, nursing him through sickness when everyone else said to put him down.

The horse Bennett had sworn no one else would ever ride because the beast was too temperamental for anyone but me.

But Bennett wasn't alone in the saddle.

Aria was seated in front of him.

She was laughing, her head thrown back against his chest in a display of pure joy.

Bennett's arms were wrapped around her, his hands guiding hers on the reins.

The crowd cheered.

"Look at them," the woman next to me sighed dreamily. "So in love."

I felt like I had been stabbed in the gut.

He had taken my home.

He had taken my dignity.

Now, he was taking the one thing that was just mine.

I watched them parade past me.

Bennett looked at me.

He smirked.

It was a small, cruel lifting of his lips.

He was showing me my place.

I wasn't the wife anymore.

I was merely the spectator.