Fiona pinched the bridge of her nose, her delicate features twisted in exaggerated disgust.

"Mason, why on earth would you use something like this? Isn't this... well, isn't this what peasants use?"

That single comment was all it took. Terrified Fiona might think he'd lowered his standards, Mason grabbed the insoles—the ones Grandma had spent nights stitching by hand, her eyesight failing—and tossed them into the trash.

Right in front of me. He didn't even blink.

Sometimes I wonder. Are those insoles really so cheap?

To the world, maybe worthless. But Grandma relied on selling those "cheap" things to raise me, feed me, put me through school. To us, they were the ultimate luxury—pure love, stitched into cloth.

To Mason, they were less than garbage. After all, even garbage was allowed inside the Gilbert residence. Grandma's love was not.

Mason let me rot in silence for three days before he finally deigned to message me.

[Mason: Naomi, are you done with the drama yet? If you're finished acting out, go to your grandmother's place and fetch some sweet potato starch.]

[Mason: Fiona wants sweet potato crepes. I'll make them for her when I get off work.]

[Mason: The store-bought stuff doesn't compare to the homemade kind from the country.]

[Mason: And I'm warning you—fix your attitude. No one's going to pay the bill for your jealousy. Stop fighting for attention.]

I stared at the screen, expression numb, and swiped the notification away.

That was Mason in a nutshell. One word from Fiona, and he'd sneer at "country people" with one breath, then demand the fruits of our labor with the next.

Reading his promise to cook for her, a bitter memory surfaced. In all our years together, Mason had never cooked for me.

Correction. Once.

The day Fiona returned from abroad. Under the pretext of cooking for me, he prepared a feast consisting entirely of her favorite dishes.

Fiona loved spice. I had a weak stomach—spicy food was practically poison.

"Just rinse it in warm water," Mason had said, voice clipped with impatience. "Fiona is a guest. Can you stop being so delicate for one night?"

So I sat there for three hours, desperate not to appear ungrateful. I rinsed every piece of meat, every vegetable in water that turned red with chili oil, and forced it down.

That night, I woke in agony. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in my gut. My limbs were heavy, my body slick with cold sweat.

I reached out, hoping Mason could get me water. My hand met a cold, empty pillow.

Gone.

Panic rising through the pain, I called him. Is he working late? Does he need a ride? Is he hungry?

The call connected. But it wasn't Mason who answered.

Fiona's voice, trembling with theatrical pain: "Mason... it's all my fault. I just wanted to cut you an orange..."

Then Mason—gentle, doting, a tone he never used with me. He was tending to her wound. "How could you be so careless? In the future, leave menial tasks like cutting fruit to Naomi. She's used to rough work."

Fiona sobbed softly. "That's not right, is it? It's 1 AM. Naomi must be asleep."

His reply froze the blood in my veins. "So what? How long does it take to slice fruit? She can go back to sleep after. It's not a big deal."

Lying in the dark, clutching my burning stomach, I didn't even have the strength to cry.

I hung up. Terrified I might actually die alone in that bed, I called emergency services.

Two ambulances arrived at the building that night.

One took me, writhing from severe gastritis.

The other took Fiona, who had nicked her finger on a paring knife.

Mason went with her.

I can still see the look in his eyes as he escorted her out—a depth of heartache and worry I had never witnessed in our marriage.

That was the night I learned the truth. Mason hadn't been at the office. He'd rented an apartment for Fiona directly upstairs from our marital home.

A few vertical feet of concrete separated us. But as the ambulance doors closed, I realized Mason and I were separated by an entire universe.

By the time I returned to the apartment, clutching Grandma's urn to my chest, it was 8 PM.

I unlocked the door. Laughter and playful teasing drifted from the living room.

I stepped inside.

The laughter cut off.

"Ah, Naomi. You're back."

Fiona Fletcher leaned against the dining chair, surveying the room like she owned it. "You haven't eaten yet, have you? Let me get you something."

On the table sat the cold, picked-over remnants of a meal for two.

Serve me food?

A power play. She was offering me their scraps like a queen tossing bones to a stray.

Once, this would have stung. Now? Nothing. No point wasting emotion on a man who couldn't even see me.

Mason barely glanced up as I kicked off my shoes.

"Good timing," he said, clipped. "You brought the sweet potato flour? Clean the dining room and kitchen. I need the counter to make wrappers for Fiona's snack."

I scoffed, refusing to look at him.

"I'm done playing nanny. Eight years, Mason. You made the mess; you clean it."

I clutched Grandma's urn tight and turned toward the hallway.

Fiona sprang from her chair, seizing my hand. Her face twisted into perfect, fragile grievance.

"Naomi, are you still upset about Sugar?" Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I can apologize. Sugar was genuinely sick, so I begged Mason to take us to the hospital. Please don't be angry with him. If it bothers you that much... I won't move in."

She bit down hard on those last words. Then, with theatrical flair, she glanced toward the corner of the living room.

I followed her gaze. Luxury luggage, stacked high.

Mason had decided stairs were too strenuous for his mistress. So he'd simply moved her in.

He strode over and pulled Fiona into his arms, shielding her like a priceless antique.

"Why are you explaining yourself to her?" His voice was ice. "Letting you move in was my decision. I don't need her permission."

He turned his cold stare on me. "Clean the kitchen. Now. Then pack your things and vacate the master bedroom. Move to the guest room."

His hand rested possessively on Fiona's waist. "Fiona twisted her back last night. The doctor said she needs a proper mattress. She sleeps in the master bedroom now. You take the guest room—or the study. I don't care."

His tone was indistinguishable from how one might address a servant.

A bitter taste coated my tongue. Eight years. You'd treat a dog with more warmth. But in Mason's eyes, I ranked lower than livestock. The master bedroom—our bridal suite—and he was giving it away without a second thought.

I didn't argue. Didn't scream. Just walked past them, expression stony.

"No need to pack. I'm moving out. Do whatever you want."

Out of sight, out of mind. I just wanted to escape.

But as I stepped forward, Fiona lunged, latching onto my arm.

To an observer, it might have looked like a plea for forgiveness. But I felt her nails dig in. Instinctively, I jerked back to shake her off.

It happened in a blur.

Fiona crumpled to the floor with a theatrical cry. The sudden motion knocked the urn from my grip.

Time slowed. I watched in horror as the vessel hit the floorboards.

Crash.

The lid flew off. Grandma's ashes spilled out, scattering across the cold wood in a gray, tragic cloud.

Fiona clutched her ankle, tears streaming. "Naomi! I know you hate me, but why would you push me? I just wanted to help!"

I didn't hear her lies. Didn't see her crocodile tears. My world had narrowed to the gray powder spreading across the floor.

"Grandma—!"

I threw myself down, hands scrambling desperately to gather the ashes, a scream tearing from my throat.

But before the sound could fully escape, a shadow loomed over me.

Slap!

The force snapped my head to the side. My cheek burned. Blood filled my mouth.

"Naomi Pruitt!" Mason roared, trembling with rage. "I didn't realize you were this vicious! How dare you push her? I told you she was injured!"

Mason's gaze cut through me, cold and sharp as a serrated blade. My lungs seized, the air trapped in my throat.

Heavy hands clamped onto my shoulders, crushing me to the floor.

"Kneel." His voice was devoid of warmth. "Apologize to Fiona. Now."