Chapter 6

Isabelle leaned back in the tub, a sigh of contentment.

"You're surprisingly good at this," she commented, her eyes half-closed.

"For someone so... high maintenance."

She was deliberately trying to provoke me further.

I just continued washing her shoulder, my touch impersonal.

"Why do you stay, Sarah?" she asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice. "He clearly despises you. And you act like you don't care about anything but his money."

I kept my expression neutral.

"Money is a powerful motivator, Ms. Moreau."

I recited the lines I had practiced in my head.

"Ethan provides a certain lifestyle. I've grown accustomed to it."

This was the narrative he believed. The one I needed him to believe.

From the bedroom, I heard a crash. A glass shattering.

Ethan must have overheard.

His anger, his pain, fueled by my carefully constructed lies.

Good.

When Isabelle was finally out of the bath and back in Ethan' s bed, I retreated to my own room.

The effort of maintaining the facade was exhausting.

I collapsed onto my bed, a wracking cough shaking my body.

More blood. This time, a lot more.

I pressed a towel to my mouth, tears of pain and despair streaming down my face.

How much longer could I keep this up?

The disease was progressing faster than I' d anticipated.

Or maybe his cruelty was accelerating it.

The next morning, I woke to find the house transformed.

My few personal items in the living room – a small vase I liked, a book of poetry – were gone.

Replaced by modern, impersonal art pieces. Isabelle' s taste, no doubt.

The colors were different too. Stark whites and grays instead of the muted tones I preferred.

Ethan was erasing me. Systematically.

He wanted to show me what I' d "lost" by choosing money over him.

The irony was a bitter pill. I had chosen him, in my own twisted way.

I was trying to save him from a future of watching me die.

He would never know.

Suddenly, a terrified yowl cut through the morning quiet.

Leo.

I ran towards the sound, my heart pounding.

It came from the sunroom.

Isabelle was there, a riding crop in her hand.

Leo was cowering in a corner, a thin red welt on his ginger fur.

"You stupid cat!" Isabelle hissed, raising the crop again. "Stay away from my things!"

She had a new designer bag on a nearby chair. Leo must have brushed against it.

"Stop!" I screamed, lunging forward.

I threw myself between Isabelle and Leo, shielding him with my body.

The crop came down, stinging my arm.

"Don't you dare touch him!" I snarled, a fury I hadn't felt in years surging through me.

Leo was trembling in my arms. He was all I had left of the good times.

Isabelle looked surprised by my ferocity, then her expression hardened.

"It's just a cat, you psycho."

Ethan walked in, drawn by the commotion.

He took in the scene: Isabelle with the crop, me protectively holding Leo, the red mark on my arm.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

"She attacked me!" Isabelle cried, instantly playing the victim. "And this filthy animal scratched my new bag!"

Ethan looked at the bag, then at Leo, then at me.

His face was unreadable for a moment.

Then, it settled into cold indifference.

"Sarah," he said, his voice flat. "Get rid of the cat."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"You heard me. It' s a nuisance. Isabelle doesn't like it. Dispose of it."

Dispose of it. Like trash.

Leo, my Leo.

"No," I whispered. "I won't."