Chapter 3: Unraveling

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My parents died young. My inheritance wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small either.

Sometimes, at night, I’d run my fingers over the family photos I kept in my nightstand. Mom’s smile was a little blurry, Dad’s eyes warm and steady. I inherited their stubbornness and their savings—just enough to keep me from ever really belonging anywhere again.

Over the years, I’d poured myself into the Ellison house, and my things had long since blended in with Marcus’s.

The china I brought from home sat beside his grandmother’s on the top shelf. My books lined the den, right next to his hunting trophies. No one could tell which was which anymore, and that was both a comfort and a heartbreak.

I had Tanya check the list and pick out everything that belonged to me.

We worked quietly, methodically, like packing up for a move no one wants. Tanya handled the delicate stuff with extra care, making sure nothing got scratched or left behind. The air was thick with the scent of lemon polish and old memories.

We sent them out of the Ellison house at night.

It was easier that way—no need for awkward explanations, no neighbors peeking through their blinds. The moving truck idled with its lights off, engine purring low as we loaded boxes under the porch light.

I asked the lawyer to check on the shops my godmother had given me and prepared to replace all the staff inside.

I was learning to take control, to claim what was mine. My lawyer, Ms. Garcia, wore her hair pulled back tight and never missed a detail. She called twice a day with updates, her voice brisk but kind.

Then I told the housekeeper to erase all traces of me from the house.

I walked from room to room, pointing out my favorite chair, the blanket I’d crocheted last winter, the family photos on the mantel. The housekeeper nodded solemnly, promising to clear it all away, her hands folded in front of her apron.

Especially the flowers and plants I’d tended over the years.

The violets on the windowsill, the gardenias by the porch—they were my pride. I clipped the last few stems, pressing the petals in a book for keepsakes. The rest, I told her, could go to the church or the neighbor’s garden.

Finally, I packed my own things.

There really wasn’t much.

Just a few pieces of jewelry.

This pair of matching lockets—my godmother let me choose a husband. I was worried Marcus wasn’t interested in me but couldn’t refuse the marriage. So I gave him a scented sachet, and he gave me a silver locket in return.

I was so happy that night, I couldn’t sleep.

I remember lying awake, fingers curled around the cool metal, listening to the crickets outside my window. For a moment, I’d let myself believe in fairy tales.

This phoenix brooch—on the day I returned home after the wedding, Marcus gave it to me specially. He said that even if I had no home to return to, from now on, I could treat the Ellison house as my own family’s home.

I was so moved, I secretly wiped away tears.

I wore that brooch every Easter and Thanksgiving, clutching it whenever I felt out of place. It was a small, shining promise that maybe I could belong.

This matching pendant—on the first Christmas after our marriage, Marcus brought it to me at dawn. We each wore one.

We spent that Christmas snowed in, drinking cocoa by the fire, watching It’s a Wonderful Life. For a moment, everything felt right.

This ring, this hairpin, this piece of green stone…

He had once treated me so well, I truly believed he loved me.

I’d clung to those memories like life rafts, even as the waters between us grew colder.

But that only lasted a year.

"Aubrey, the house is so big, do you have to wait for me in the study every day?"

"Aubrey, I’m busy. Just keep yourself occupied, all right?"

"Aubrey! Aren’t you annoying!"

His words were like cold water, slowly soaking through my favorite sweater. They left stains that wouldn’t wash out.

Good things never last; the rainbow fades, the glass shatters easily.

Even before Natalie Winters appeared, Marcus was already tired of me.

The distance between us stretched out, measured in silent dinners and cold sheets. I learned not to expect anything, and stopped waiting up for him.