Chapter 15 Lindsay
Chapter fifteen
Lindsay
Arthur leaves early the next day.
He gives me a brief acknowledgment in the kitchen. Barely a nod, really, more gesture than greeting. And left me with a reminder that the driver is available if I need one.
Then the house exhales as the door closes behind him.
Henry leaves soon after.
Backpack, shoes, a distracted goodbye. He doesn't look at me long enough for it to mean anything.
I don't blame him.
Then it's just me.
The house doesn't echo, but it doesn't welcome either. Everything feels supervised—like the walls are used to movement but not to lingering. Marble countertops gleam under recessed lighting. Fresh flowers sit in a vase I didn't arrange. Coffee sits ready in a coffee pot I didn't brew.
I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter, holding it with both hands.
No one asks if I need anything.
No one asks anything at all.
I stand in the kitchen longer than necessary, realizing no one has told me what I’m supposed to do next, or whether I’m allowed to decide for myself.
Marriage, apparently, does not come with instructions.
***
My phone starts chirping before I make it upstairs.
Not actual calls. Just notifications. Dozens of them. Social media mentions I stopped opening days ago because they all say the same thing in different fonts.
I heard you won. We should catch up.
I have a business idea.
I can help you protect your future.
Some names I know. Some I don’t. Some I recognize only because we share a last name—people who never needed me until now.
I scroll without reading, thumb moving out of habit more than interest.
An ad slides between the messages:
CAMICon — Culture, Art, Media & Innovation.
A Week-Long Extravaganza!
Rebranded from Firth City FanFest.
Tickets on sale now.
For half a second, my brain latches onto it like a life raft.
I loved attending the FanFest for the last few years. The panels. The cosplay. The late-night karaoke bars where everyone sang anime openings off-key and no one cared. It was freedom wrapped in neon and noise.
Now it's been rebranded. Expanded. Made bigger and shinier.
I wonder if it would still feel the same—or if I’d ruin it just by showing up.
I don't click.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the guest room and let the phone buzz in my hand until it stops on its own.
My suite is nice.
Too nice to feel temporary, too impersonal to feel claimed.
Neutral walls in dove gray. Thoughtful lighting that adjusts to the time of day. A window overlooking the grounds that probably costs more than my old apartment. Hotel-perfect, but without the freedom to leave tomorrow.
My suitcases are stacked in the corner where I left them last night.
I planned to live out of them until further notice. One bag for essentials. One for everything else. Keep it contained. Keep it reversible.
That was the idea.
But my plans seem to be unimportant.
Because as soon as I leave my room, staff go in after me.
I come back twenty minutes later—just to grab my charger—and freeze in the doorway.
The bed's been made. Covers pulled tight, pillows arranged with mathematical precision.
My suitcases are open, though I didn't open them.
Two women in crisp uniforms are lifting my clothes out one by one, shaking them gently, hanging them in the walk-in closet with careful hands.
"Oh," I say, startled. "You don't have to—"
"It's no trouble, Mrs. Dupree," one of them says without looking up.
Mrs. Dupree.
The name sits wrong in my mouth. Like borrowed shoes that don't quite fit.
I watch from the doorway as my clothes are lifted out one by one. Hung precisely. Color-coordinated. Like artifacts instead of choices.
Neither of them waits for my response.
My sparkly pink hoodie—the one I wore to the café, the one that made me feel like myself—gets folded and placed on a shelf instead of hung. Too casual, maybe. Too loud for this house.
I want to say something. To tell them I can do this myself. That I don't need help unpacking.
But I don't.
Because maybe this is just how things work here.
Maybe I’m meant to adjust.
***
Staff move in and out with quiet feet.
They're polite. Professional. No one makes eye contact longer than necessary.
I try to make small talk.
"The weather's nice today, huh?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you worked here long?"
"A few years, ma'am."
It doesn't land. Not rudely—just neutrally. Conversations that end before they begin.
I stop trying.
Everyone here knows their role.
Mine hasn't been defined yet.
I find myself near my room again, drawn by the sound of voices.
The staff are talking.
Not loud. Just… present. Human. The way people sound when they think no one important is listening.
I slow my steps without meaning to.
"—and her clothes?"
A woman's voice. Amused, but not unkind.
"All sequins and rhinestones," another replies. "Like she raided a clearance rack."
Laughter. Quiet, but unmistakable.
"So trashy."
I stop.
My face stays neutral.
I don't confront anyone.
I just stand there, phone still buzzing in my hand, my life split neatly into categories I didn't choose.
New money. Temporary wife. Problem to manage.
They feel permanent.
I step away from the doorway, needing air.
The house is enormous. I knew that intellectually—saw it when Arthur gave me the tour yesterday—but walking through it alone makes it feel bigger. Endless hallways. Rooms I don't have names for. Spaces designed for entertaining people I've never met.
I walk faster.
Eventually, I circle back to the only room I'm comfortable in. My suite.
The staff are gone.
I pull my sparkly hoodie out of the closet and put it on.
It's too loud for this house. Too bright. Too me.
I wear it anyway.