Chapter 2

Adeline Combs POV:

I didn't sleep. The night stretched into an eternity of silent tears and a hollow ache in my chest that felt like a physical wound. Just before dawn, exhaustion finally claimed me, pulling me into a shallow, dreamless void.

The sound of cars and cheerful chatter from downstairs tore me from it.

I rose from the bed, my limbs heavy, and walked to the top of the grand, curving staircase. The scene below froze the blood in my veins.

Emerson was there, by the front door, and Gisele was in his arms. Not in her wheelchair. He was holding her, bridal style, as she laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. It was a scene of such breathtaking intimacy that I felt like an intruder in my own home.

Gisele' s head turned slightly, and her dark eyes, so like my own, met mine. A flicker of triumph, cold and sharp, flashed in their depths before being replaced by a look of wide-eyed innocence.

"Oh," she said, her voice a soft, musical whisper. "Adeline. I didn' t see you there." She tightened her grip on Emerson, a deliberate, possessive gesture. "Emerson, darling, you didn't tell me your... wife... was home."

Emerson looked up, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something uncomfortable in his eyes-guilt, perhaps, or just the annoyance of being caught. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual charming smile.

"Adeline, sweetheart," he said, walking towards the bottom of the stairs, Gisele still cradled in his arms. "Gisele' s doctors thought it would be best for her recovery to be in a familiar, comfortable environment. I hope you don't mind."

He didn't wait for an answer. "I've had a few things... adjusted... to make her more comfortable."

He reached for my hand, but I pulled it back as if his touch were fire. My gaze swept over the foyer, the living room. Adjusted wasn't the word. It was an erasure.

The abstract painting I' d picked out for the entryway was gone, replaced by a massive, gilded portrait of Gisele at her prime. The soft, cream-colored rugs had been swapped for opulent Persian ones in deep crimson, Gisele' s favorite color. My collection of classical music scores, usually stacked neatly by the piano, had vanished.

My life, my tastes, my very presence in this house were being systematically dismantled. Two years of my existence, wiped away overnight.

It was as if I had never been here at all. Gisele was being installed, not as a guest, but as the rightful queen returning to her throne.

Just then, two movers shuffled past, carrying the enormous wedding photograph that had hung in the main hall. It was a picture of Emerson and me on a sun-drenched cliff in Santorini, his arms wrapped around me, my head thrown back in laughter. It was my favorite picture, the one I looked at every morning to remind myself how lucky I was.

As one of the movers tried to navigate the doorway, he stumbled. The massive frame slipped from his grasp and crashed to the marble floor with a sickening shatter of glass.

I didn't flinch. I just stared at the wreckage. A large shard of glass had sliced directly across my smiling face in the photograph, a jagged, violent tear.

Emerson' s gaze followed mine, and I saw his jaw tighten. He remembered how much I loved that photo. He remembered me crying with joy when he' d surprised me with it.

"Gisele hates seeing other women in my life, Emerson," she murmured from his arms, her voice laced with a cloying sweetness. "It upsets her."

That was all it took. "Take it away," Emerson said to the movers, his voice clipped. "Dispose of it."

I felt nothing. A strange, cold calm had settled over me. What was a broken picture when the marriage it represented was already in pieces?

Emerson seemed to mistake my silence for sadness. "Don't worry, my love," he said, his voice softening into that practiced, patronizing tone. "We can take a new one. A better one."

The lie is broken, I thought, my voice a silent scream in my head. What does the frame matter?

He misunderstood again, thinking my silence was acquiescence. He gently set Gisele down in her wheelchair before turning to go upstairs, presumably to find a replacement photo.

The moment he was out of sight, Gisele' s sweet facade dropped. Her eyes darkened with a familiar, predatory gleam. She wheeled herself over to a large glass display cabinet near the fireplace. It was where I kept my most precious things.

"What's all this junk?" she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

Before I could answer, her hand shot out and she pulled a small, hand-painted porcelain bird from the top shelf.

My breath caught in my throat. "Gisele, don't," I said, my voice sharp, desperate. "Please, put that back."

She examined the bird, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Is this important to you?"

"Gisele, I'm warning you."

"Oops," she said with a theatrical shrug, and let the bird slip from her fingers.

It hit the marble floor and exploded into a hundred tiny pieces.

A cry tore from my throat. It wasn't just a bird. It was the last thing my mother and I had painted together in the hospital, just days before the cancer took her. It was the only tangible piece of her I had left.

I dropped to my knees, my hands trembling as I tried to gather the sharp, impossibly small fragments. A piece of porcelain sliced into my palm, and a drop of blood welled up, bright red against the white dust.

Gisele wheeled herself forward, the rubber tire of her chair grinding the largest remaining piece of the bird' s wing into powder.

"You know," she said, her voice a low, venomous hiss, "my mother always said your mother was a pathetic, weak woman. Crying all the time. Just like you." She leaned closer, her eyes glittering with malice. "If you' re not careful, Adeline, you'll end up just like her. Alone and forgotten."

Something inside me snapped. The grief, the betrayal, the years of suppressed rage erupted in a single, violent surge. I lunged forward and shoved her wheelchair with all my might.

It tipped over, sending her sprawling onto the floor with a shocked cry.

Emerson came running back down the stairs at the sound of the crash. He didn't even look at me. He rushed to Gisele, scooping her up into his arms, his face a mask of frantic concern.

"Adeline, what the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped, his eyes finally finding mine, blazing with anger. Then he saw my tear-streaked face, the blood on my hand, the porcelain dust on the floor. He hesitated, his anger faltering for a split second.

Gisele, ever the actress, buried her face in his chest. "It's my fault, Emerson," she sobbed. "I broke one of her little trinkets by accident. I said I'd buy her a new one, but she just... she just exploded." She lifted her head, her eyes wide and pleading. "Maybe... maybe I should leave. I don't want to cause trouble." She turned her tearful gaze to me. "I'm so sorry, Adeline. I truly am."

I just stared at Emerson, my heart a leaden weight in my chest. I waited. Waited for him to see through the act, to remember the woman he claimed to love.

He looked from her trembling form to my silent, bleeding one. He sighed, a sound of pure exasperation.

"It was just a cheap little figurine, Adeline," he said, his voice dismissive. "I'll buy you a dozen more. Gisele just woke up from a coma, she' s fragile. Can' t you have a little compassion?"

I stared at him, the man who had promised to burn for me, now telling me to be compassionate to the woman who had just shattered the last piece of my mother's memory. The absurdity of it was so immense, so soul-crushing, that I almost laughed again.

He wanted me to make room for her. He wanted me to understand.

And in that moment, I finally did. I understood perfectly.

"No," I said, my voice raspy and hollow. "You can't buy me a new one."

Some things, once broken, can never be replaced.