Chapter 3

Years passed. The gilded cage became my home.

Arthur was, publicly, a model husband. Attentive, generous, a pillar of society.

He supported charities, spoke of civic duty.

Our home was a testament to his success and my supposed contentment.

Bea was right, he was different from the other fossils. He was a more sophisticated hypocrite.

The promises of unwavering devotion became a distant echo.

His "business trips" grew more frequent, his explanations more vague.

Then, a letter, anonymous, slipped under my door.

No elegant script, just plain, typed words.

An address in Greenwich Village. A name: Daisy Miller. And the mention of a child, a boy.

Arthur' s son.

The "urgent business" that took him away so often.

The world tilted. The beautiful wallpaper in our hallway seemed to mock me.

I went to the address that afternoon.

A modest apartment, but well-kept.

I saw him leave, a quick, furtive glance up and down the street before he hailed a cab.

Then, a woman appeared at the window, holding a small boy' s hand. Daisy. Young, pretty, with an actress's hopeful, tired eyes.

The boy waved. He had Arthur' s chin.

My carefully constructed composure shattered.

I confronted Arthur that night, the anonymous letter clutched in my hand.

Our bedroom, usually a sanctuary of calm, felt like a courtroom.

"Who is Daisy Miller, Arthur?"

He didn' t flinch, merely raised an eyebrow.

"A business acquaintance, my dear. Why do you ask?"

"And her son? Is he a business acquaintance too?"

His composure cracked then, just for a second. Surprise, then calculation.

He tried to gaslight me.

"Eleanor, you're overwrought. You know how malicious gossip can be."

"I saw you, Arthur. I saw them."

He sighed, a theatrical display of regret.

"Ah. Then the truth, I suppose."

He didn't deny it. He reframed it.

"She was a moment of weakness, years ago. The boy... he is an innocent in all this."

He stepped closer, his voice softening, attempting to manipulate.

"Eleanor, you are renowned for your compassion. Think of the child. He needs to be provided for."

My renowned compassion. He was using my own character against me.

"And you expect me to what? Welcome them into our lives?"

"Not at all, my dear," he said smoothly. "But they could be... discreetly looked after. Perhaps under your purview? A small allowance, a separate residence. It would be the Christian thing to do."

He wanted me to manage his affair, to legitimize his betrayal with my "compassion."

The audacity stole my breath.

The man who pledged lifelong fidelity now wanted me to be the quiet, understanding caretaker of his secret family.

The illusion of our perfect marriage, so carefully maintained, crumbled to dust.