Chapter 3 Chapter 3

The days that followed were a quiet torture.

Doris moved through the house like a ghost, her presence acknowledged only by cold stares and pointed silence.

The air was thick with Emit and Gigi.

She heard them laughing in the garden. She saw him place a shawl over Gigi's shoulders on a cool evening. She watched as he personally instructed the chef on the specific way Gigi liked her coffee.

Each instance was a small, sharp cut. A constant drip of poison into her veins. She felt her spirit eroding, worn down by the sheer weight of her own invisibility.

One afternoon, a large party was held at the estate. A gathering of the city's elite.

Doris stood on an upper balcony, watching the guests mingle on the lawn below.

Emit was at the center of it all, a glass of champagne in his hand. Gigi was attached to his arm, radiant in a red dress that Doris knew cost a small fortune.

Gigi leaned in and whispered something in Emit's ear. He smiled. A real smile. It reached his eyes.

Doris had not seen him smile like that in three years.

Gigi then raised her hand, showing off a massive diamond ring on her finger. It was not a wedding band, but it was a clear statement. A declaration of ownership.

The guests murmured their approval. Someone congratulated Emit. He didn't deny it. He simply inclined his head, accepting the praise.

Doris felt the stone in her chest grow heavier. She was a secret. A shameful obligation he was waiting to discard. Gigi was his public triumph.

She turned to go back inside, but a voice stopped her.

"It must be hard to watch."

Isiah. Her brother. He leaned against the railing nearby, a drink in his hand.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice flat.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Don't you? He's parading her around like a prize while his wife watches from the shadows. That's not a good look for the great Emit Arnold."

Doris said nothing.

"Why do you stay?" Isiah asked, his voice suddenly serious. "Why do you let them do this to you?"

"It's complicated," she murmured.

"Is it?" he pressed. "Or are you just afraid to leave?"

Before she could answer, her adoptive mother, Hildur Cummings, appeared at the glass doors.

"Doris, there you are. Stop hiding. People will talk."

She came over, her eyes scanning Doris's simple dress with disapproval.

Gigi and Emit were walking towards the house. They passed by the balcony below. Gigi looked up and saw them. Her smile faltered for a second before she tightened her grip on Emit's arm.

"Look at them," Hildur said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "They make a lovely couple, don't they?"

Doris wanted to scream. She wanted to tell her that this was her husband. That this was a betrayal.

But she knew it would be useless. Hildur had orchestrated this. She had brought Gigi into this house, coached her, molded her into the perfect replacement.

"Emit has always deserved someone like Everleigh," Hildur continued, her voice cool. "Gigi is the next best thing. She's pliable. She understands what a man like Emit needs. Unlike some people."

The insult was clear.

"You're talking about my husband," Doris said, her voice barely a whisper.

Hildur laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. "My dear, he stopped being your husband the day Everleigh died. You are just... a technicality. An unfortunate one."

Doris felt the blood drain from her face.

Gigi chose that moment to reappear. She came onto the balcony, a concerned look on her face.

"Doris, are you alright? You look pale." She turned to Hildur. "Mother, you shouldn't upset her. She's very sensitive."

She made it sound like an accusation. Like Doris was mentally unstable.

Then, directing her words to Emit, who had followed her onto the balcony, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She was just saying some strange things. About you and me. I think the stress is getting to her."

Emit's eyes narrowed. He looked at Doris, not with anger, but with a cold, clinical assessment. Like a doctor examining a patient.

"Doris," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Hildur is right. You're not yourself. You've been under a lot of strain."

He stepped closer. He was not looking at her as a husband. He was looking at her as a problem to be managed.

"Perhaps you need to rest. Away from here."

It was a threat. The sanitarium his family used for inconvenient relatives.

He was using her supposed mental fragility, a fiction created by Gigi and Hildur, as a weapon against her. To discredit her. To silence her.

"You've always been so emotional, Doris," he continued, his voice taking on a tone of false concern. It was a voice he used for the public, for business associates. Not for her. "It's not healthy. It clouds your judgment."

He was humiliating her. Publicly. In front of her mother, her brother, and the woman who had taken her place. He was painting her as a hysterical, delusional woman.

It was the ultimate degradation. Not just an attack on her position as his wife, but on her very sanity.

Later that evening, the party wound down. Doris was in her room, the silence a welcome relief.

There was a knock on the door.

She opened it to find Emit standing there.

For a wild moment, she thought he had come to apologize.

He walked past her, into the room. He went to the small safe hidden behind a painting. He opened it and took out a jewelry box.

He opened it. Inside was a necklace. A stunning creation of sapphires and diamonds.

It was a necklace he had designed for her. A gift he had given her on their second anniversary. He had fastened it around her neck himself, his fingers cool against her skin. It was the last time he had willingly touched her with anything resembling tenderness.

"Gigi's birthday is next week," he said, not looking at her. "I think she'll like this."

He closed the box.

He was taking a piece of their shared history, their one good memory, and giving it to her.

It was a complete and utter nullification of her feelings, of her past, of her entire existence in his life.

"No," she said. The word was quiet, but it hung in the air between them.

He turned slowly. "What did you say?"

"You can't," she said, her voice stronger now. "You can't give that to her."

He let out a cold laugh. "I can do whatever I want. Everything in this house, including you, belongs to me."

He started to walk out.

"Please," she begged, the last shred of her pride crumbling. "Emit, not that. Anything but that."

He stopped at the door, his back to her.

"The board meeting is tomorrow," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "The final vote on the merger. My grandfather will be there. He expects the family to present a united front."

He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp and cruel in the dim light.

"Be there. Smile. Act like the loving wife. Do that, and I'll reconsider."

He was blackmailing her. Forcing her to perform one last time. To put on the mask of the happy Mrs. Arnold, to help him secure his business deal.

In exchange for what? A necklace? A memory?

She stared at his back, the hope she thought was dead flickering with a final, agonizing spasm.

"Fine," she whispered.

He left without another word, taking the necklace with him.

She sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself.

She would go. She would play her part. She would give him the performance of a lifetime.

And then, she would be free. She would make sure of it.