Chapter 3

When I saw my mom, I didn't say anything.

I just listened, like always, as she fussed about what was lucky for my ceremony day, how I should take care of myself after the baby came...

Her voice had that familiar domestic chatter, and that heavier, more careful quality of someone leaving things in order.

I nodded. I answered.

I rubbed her shoulders. I went through the things she'd set aside for me long ago.

Sunlight came in through the old living room, like countless afternoons before.

Only when I got up to pour water and caught my reflection in the mirror—

In two short days, I looked like I'd aged ten years.

Before the ceremony, I insisted on meeting that woman face to face.

Damon agreed.

Maybe he was certain that once I saw her in person—

saw how ordinary she was, how timid, how far below me in every way—

I'd accept the future he'd planned.

He knew my pride. He knew how soft my heart could be.

And he knew how much my mom liked him as her future son-in-law, how much she wanted to see me settled.

The car drove out to a quiet, expensive villa district on the western edge of town.

My heart sank bit by bit.

This didn't look like the "I set her up somewhere" he'd described.

A housekeeper opened the white three-story villa's door, smiling, "Sir, you're back."

Inside, the décor was fashionable Italian style.

Expensive. Tasteful.

And then I saw her.

She stood at the turn of the staircase, very young.

Her features had a kind of fragile beauty.

"Damon!" Her voice was soft and small, with a light southern accent.

Damon gave a short, "Mm."

Then, with mild scolding: "Why didn't you put shoes on before coming down? How many times have I told you the floor is cold?"

"I... I heard the car," she said quietly, fingers twisting at the hem of her dress.

"This is Evelyn," Damon said simply.

He didn't explain who I was, or who she was.

She looked up quickly, once, and her voice got smaller. "Miss Evelyn. I'm Chloe."

I looked at her.

Young. Pretty. Fragile.

A perfect match for the woman Damon described as "uneducated, someone I had to take care of."

He'd said he'd tried to give her a way out.

Sent her to school, offered her an easy job at the company, something that could earn her a respectable income.

She wouldn't take any of it.

Afraid of strangers. Afraid she couldn't learn. Afraid of the work.

She only wanted to stay like this, in this pretty house,

waiting for him to come back, or waiting for him to remember.

...

I was about to speak, but Damon had already stepped forward and lifted her up in his arms.

He told the housekeeper, "Mrs. Whitman, bring her slippers."

The girl leaned into his shoulder.

I stood frozen.

I watched him take the slippers from the housekeeper's hand, kneel on one knee, and slip them onto her feet.

That role of "the woman at his side" that should have been mine, and his care for her, so smooth it was bone-deep — it was like ice water poured over every bit of warmth I'd saved up over six years.

His tone with her was a weary kind of patience, like with a difficult child, but the way he cared for her was as automatic as breathing.

That was the habit of years, built without thought.

The answer had been clear the moment I stepped in the door.

If this ceremony happened, it would only add another injured person.

I sat there less than three minutes before standing up. "I should go."

Damon stood with me. "I'll see you out."

On the way through the hall, a servant stopped him to ask about dinner. It left just me and Chloe.

I thought maybe she didn't know what was really going on.

No need to tear the bandage off.

I was stepping past when the girl blocked me.

The timid ice in her eyes melted in an instant, and a mocking smile turned up at the corner of her mouth.

"Seen enough?" She lowered her voice. "You really thought you could walk right in here and take this place? Unless I nod, you'll spend your whole life in the shadows, waiting to be 'dealt with.' Got it?"

I was thrown for a second by how fast her face had changed.

But I didn't feel like getting into it.

She took half a step closer, voice sharp. "I heard your mom's been running around showing off the invitations to everyone. What a joke. How stupid do you have to be, handing your daughter off as a second mate, and still running your mouth about it..."

"Shut your mouth."

I turned and nailed my cold stare to her face.

I'd been ready to believe she was another victim of this man, like me.

I could take her hating me, cursing me. That I'd accept.

But not a word about my mom.

The girl tipped up that young, pretty face. "Am I wrong? Isn't your mom just an old foo—"

Slap.

I didn't hold back at all.

Her head snapped to the side, and her eyes filled up with tears.

"You... you hit me?"

I stepped closer, staring her down. "Say one more word about my mom and I'll tear your mouth off. I mean it."

Damon came running at the sound.

He saw her red cheek, and his eyes darkened. "Evie, you promised you wouldn't make things hard for her."

I met his eyes. "Ask her. Ask her what she just said."

The girl's voice was thin and trembling. "Damon, I didn't..."

I almost laughed at how fast she could switch between her two faces.

No more indulging her.