Chapter 3 No.3

The weeks leading up to the engagement party were a slow, grinding torture.

Cayla moved through her days like an automaton. Every task, every phone call, was a reminder of the life being built on the ashes of her own.

She was in constant contact with vendors, florists, and musicians, her voice a calm, professional monotone as she discussed the details of Grafton and Cherrelle's celebration. Each conversation was a small, sharp cut.

Cherrelle made sure of it.

She would call Cayla multiple times a day, her voice a syrupy sweet poison.

"Cayla, honey, I was thinking. I want peonies. Only peonies. The ones in that exact shade of blush pink."

"The florist said they are out of season and difficult to source."

"Well, make it happen. Grafton pays you to solve problems, not to tell me they exist."

The calls were always on speakerphone when Grafton was near. Cayla could hear his silent approval in the background.

The public displays were worse.

One evening, Grafton hosted a dinner for some business partners. Cherrelle was at his side, sparkling in a new diamond necklace.

"Grafton is just so good to me," she announced to the table, her hand possessively on his arm. "He knows what I like before I even do."

She looked directly at Cayla, who was standing by the wall, ready to refill wine glasses or take notes. "Isn't that right, Cayla? You've been around him for so long. You must know how much he adores me."

It was a declaration of ownership. A reminder to everyone in the room, especially Cayla, of her place.

She was the fixture. Cherrelle was the queen.

Later, as Cayla was serving coffee, one of the guests, a man who had known the family for years, turned to her.

"You're still here, Cayla. Grafton is lucky to have someone so loyal."

Before she could respond, Cherrelle laughed, a light, tinkling sound that grated on the nerves.

"Oh, she's more than loyal. She's devoted." Cherrelle's eyes gleamed with malice. "Sometimes I think she's more attached to Grafton than a regular assistant should be. It's a little... intense."

The implication was clear. She was painting Cayla as a desperate, obsessed hanger-on.

Grafton, who had overheard, walked over. He placed a hand on Cherrelle's shoulder, a protective gesture. He looked at Cayla, his expression one of weary disappointment, as if he were dealing with a troublesome child.

"Cayla," he said, his voice low but carrying across the quiet room. "Don't make our guests uncomfortable. You know your boundaries."

He was protecting Cherrelle from her. He was publicly shaming her, validating Cherrelle's poisonous narrative. He was calling her delusional. Sick.

The words echoed in her head. Know your boundaries.

Her boundary was the door. And she was so close to walking through it forever.

The final blow came the night before the party.

Cayla was in the grand ballroom of the hotel, overseeing the final setup. The room was a sea of blush pink peonies. It was beautiful. And it was suffocating.

Grafton and Cherrelle arrived to inspect the work.

Cherrelle clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, Gray, it's perfect! It's everything I dreamed of."

She stood on her toes and kissed him. It was a long, passionate kiss, a performance for an audience of one.

Cayla turned away, her eyes landing on the table settings.

Grafton pulled away from Cherrelle, a smug smile on his face. He walked over to Cayla.

For a moment, she thought he might offer a word of thanks. A simple acknowledgment of the work she had done.

Instead, he picked up one of the custom-printed napkins. It was embossed with their initials: G & C.

"Good work," he said, his voice holding a hint of surprise, as if he were shocked she was capable of competence. He then looked around the opulent room, a satisfied expression on his face. "This is what a real celebration looks like."

He was comparing it to something. To all the quiet birthdays and small victories she had tried to mark for him over the years. The simple cakes she'd bought, the thoughtful gifts she'd picked out, all of which he had ignored or scorned.

This spectacle was real. Her quiet, steady care had been nothing.

She watched as he went back to Cherrelle, his arm wrapping around her waist. He whispered something in her ear, and Cherrelle laughed, her head thrown back in triumph.

They were a perfect picture of happiness. A picture painted with Cayla's pain.

She forced herself to walk towards them.

"Everything is ready for tomorrow," she said, her voice steady. "If there's nothing else, I'll be leaving."

"Of course," Cherrelle said, smiling sweetly. "You must be tired. Thank you for all your hard work, Cayla."

It was a dismissal. The queen thanking the servant.

Cayla nodded and walked away. She didn't look back.

She couldn't. This was her last night in hell.