Chapter 1 #3
Near the edge of the press area, two reporters stand with their phones angled toward the stage.
“Katrina looks perfect with him,” one says, not bothering to lower her voice.
The other hums in agreement. “Right? That’s a brand match. If Austen Parks's smart, they’ll keep leaning into that.”
The words aren't meant for me, but that doesn't stop them from finding me.
Perfect with him. A brand match.
I stare at my husband under the lights, another woman’s hand on his chest, and suddenly I can't remember the last time I stood beside him in public and felt chosen. Not tolerated, not included because marriage required it, but chosen.
My eyes burn, and I turn before the first tear falls.
I know cameras. I know angles. I know how quickly a private crack becomes a public image.
I learned it at Austen Parks before I ever became an Austen, back when I wore a satin gown, knelt beside crying children, and smiled until my cheeks shook.
The trick's to never let the guests see you break character.
So I don’t.
I walk calmly past the champagne station, past the floral arch, and past the security guard who recognizes me and opens the staff-side gate without asking questions. I keep my shoulders straight, smiling once at a woman carrying a tray of empty glasses.
Then I reach the service corridor behind the moon garden, where the music dims and the stone walls smell faintly of paint and new wiring. Only then do I press my hand over my mouth, but a sound comes out anyway. Small. Humiliating. Mine.
I stand in the narrow corridor in my silver dress and expensive heels, crying where the cameras can’t see me.
The house's too quiet when I get back. It's always quiet lately, but tonight it feels staged. Like one of the model homes in Starlight Court’s luxury wing, every surface is arranged to suggest a life without any evidence that people actually live it.
I leave my heels by the door.
In the kitchen, the pendant lights glow over white marble. There's a bottle of sparkling water in the fridge with a note from the housekeeper asking if I want more grapefruit flavor next week. I stare at it for too long. Then I take off my earrings and set them on the counter.
For a while, I stand there with my phone in my hand, waiting to feel foolish.
That'd be convenient. If I could decide I overreacted, I could wash my face, put on one of Sebastian’s shirts, and be calm by the time he gets home.
We'd talk. He'd pull me against him. I'd tell him I felt invisible, and he'd say the right things in that low voice that still knows how to get past every defense I have. The island could become enough again.
I want that version of me to show up, but she doesn't.
My phone buzzes at 10:38.
Sebastian:
Where did you go?
I stare at the message until the screen dims, then I tap it awake.
Me:
Home.
The three dots appear immediately.
Sebastian:
Are you sick?
I almost laugh. Not because it's funny, but because of course he asks that. Of course the explanation he reaches for's physical. Something simple that a person can treat with water, rest, and maybe a doctor if it gets worse.
Me:
No.
The dots again.
Sebastian:
Chloe.
I walk out of the kitchen before I answer.
The living room is dim except for the lights from the garden.
Beyond the glass doors, the pool reflects the moon in a clean white stripe.
Sebastian picked this house because it's close enough to the resort for emergencies and far enough away to feel separate. It hasn't felt separate in a long time.
Me:
When will you be home?
This time the answer takes longer. I imagine him looking across the crowd, searching for a gap in the schedule. I imagine Janine touching his arm, Katrina laughing nearby, and someone handing him another problem dressed as an opportunity.
Sebastian:
Before midnight. I promise.
A second later, another message arrives.
Sebastian:
We’ll talk then. I love you.
I type three different answers:
I love you too.
Okay.
Please don’t make me wait tonight.
I delete all of them.
Finally, I send:
Me:
Okay.
Then I put the phone face down on the coffee table.
For a while, I try to do normal things. I wash my face, the makeup coming off in gray streaks beneath my eyes. I hang up the silver dress and put on soft pants and a sweater, make tea, and forget to drink it.
At 11:12, I sit on the edge of our bed. At 11:27, I move to the window.
At 11:43, headlights sweep across the far wall of the bedroom. My heart trips. I stand, but the lights pass on. Not him.
I lower myself back onto the bed carefully, as if moving too fast might break something important.
At 11:55, I pick up my phone. No new messages.
The house hums around me. Air-conditioning. Refrigerator. The faint mechanical sigh of expensive systems keeping everything at the correct temperature.
At 11:59, I watch the minute change. Midnight arrives without ceremony.
No tires on the drive. No front door opening. No Sebastian calling my name from downstairs, tired, sorry, and ready to explain. Just the quiet house. The dark window. My phone, silent in my hand.
At 12:01, I tell myself he's walking to the car. At 12:04, I tell myself someone stopped him near the exit. At 12:07, I stop telling myself anything.