Chapter 3

Marcus paraded me around the gala, his hand firmly on my back.

He'd laugh at something I said, his eyes crinkling, but I could see him watching Victoria from the corner of his eye.

Each touch, each seemingly affectionate gesture, felt like a lie.

I was numb, a doll going through the motions.

My heart, which had once fluttered at his attention, was a cold, heavy stone in my chest.

He was so obviously trying to provoke Victoria, to show her he was desirable, that he had moved on.

It was a pathetic, transparent display.

I watched Victoria. She was a consummate actress.

She feigned indifference, then subtle jealousy, then, finally, distress.

She pressed her fingers to her temple, her brow furrowed prettily.

"Oh, Marcus," she sighed, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the din. "This dreadful noise. My head is splitting."

It was a classic move.

Marcus immediately dropped my arm.

His focus shifted entirely to Victoria, his face etched with concern.

"My dear, are you alright?"

He guided her towards the exit, his arm securely around her waist.

"I'll take you home," he murmured, all tenderness.

He didn't even glance back at me.

Abandoned again. The star of his show one moment, forgotten trash the next.

The confirmation was brutal. My role in his charade was complete.

I felt a wave of dizziness, the earlier fever still lingering.

The humiliation, the exhaustion, it was all too much.

I slipped out of the gala unnoticed, a ghost leaving a party of illusions.

Back in the sterile apartment Marcus provided, I began to purge.

The designer clothes he'd bought me, still in their garment bags, went into a donation pile.

The expensive trinkets, the books he'd "thought I'd enjoy," the art prints he'd chosen – all of it.

I kept only my own clothes, my laptop, my scripts, my father's camera.

My life, stripped back to its essentials.

It felt like cleansing a wound.

As I packed, memories flickered.

Marcus laughing as we watched an old movie at the Hayes Classic Cinema.

His hand holding mine on that private jet, the city lights like scattered jewels below.

The future I'd naively imagined with him – a partnership, shared dreams, love – dissolved like smoke.

It hurt, a dull, persistent ache.

But underneath the pain, there was a flicker of something else.

Relief.

The truth, however ugly, was liberating.

The sound of the front door opening made me jump.

Marcus.

And Victoria.

He barely glanced at the piles of discarded luxury, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Amelia," he said, his tone businesslike. "Victoria will be staying here for a while."

Not a request. A statement.

My heart clenched. Staying *here*? In this apartment that was supposed to be my sanctuary, however temporary?

Victoria swept past him, a triumphant glint in her eyes.

She was moving in, staking her claim.

The air crackled with her victory.

I nodded, my voice surprisingly calm.

"Of course, Marcus."

My compliance seemed to throw him for a moment. He frowned, as if expecting a fight, an argument.

But Victoria was already issuing orders.

"Darling, that dreadful painting in the living room simply has to go. And my things are arriving tomorrow, we'll need to clear out the guest closet."

Her voice was musical, but her eyes, when they met mine, were cold.

Marcus, distracted, turned to her. "Whatever you need, Victoria."

He was already hers again, dancing to her tune.

I retreated to my small bedroom, a strange sense of detached relief washing over me.

It didn't matter anymore.

I would be gone soon.

This gilded cage would no longer be my prison.

Victoria wasted no time asserting her control.

The apartment, once filled with Marcus's impersonal, expensive taste, began to transform.

Her clothes filled the closets, her perfumes scented the air, her photographs appeared on tables.

She directed staff, redecorated, made demands.

Marcus catered to her every whim.

He personally oversaw the removal of the "dreadful painting."

He had her favorite flowers delivered daily.

He even, I noticed with a pang, started stocking the specific brand of imported tea she preferred, the one he'd once told me was "too fussy."

I watched it all with a strange detachment, like an anthropologist observing a foreign ritual.

My personal touches, the few I'd dared to introduce, were quietly erased.

My favorite mug disappeared from the kitchen. The stack of classic film theory books I'd left on the coffee table was replaced by fashion magazines.

It didn't sting as much as I expected.

It was just... confirmation.

I was a ghost in their re-established world.

My departure couldn't come soon enough.