My fingers clamped around the edge of the drafting table, the wood biting into my skin. The glossy paper lay face-up between us, the black-and-white static of the image screaming into the silence.

Damien closed the distance in three long strides. He snatched the ultrasound photo off the desk before I could reach it.

His eyes darted across the surface, locking onto the bright white '11W' in the corner. He traced the curve of the printed letters with his thumb, his expression entirely unreadable. Then he flipped it over. The blue ink stamp on the back read Dr. Farrow's Clinic, followed by a date from exactly three years ago.

The muscles in his jaw worked, tight and rigid. When he finally spoke, his voice shook. Not with sadness. With raw, uncontainable fury.

"Whose is this?"

I swallowed the dry lump in my throat. "Give it back to me, Damien."

"I asked you a question, Vivian." He took a step closer, towering over me in the harsh fluorescent light. "Whose child is this?"

I dug my nails into my palms. The truth clawed at my throat, begging to be let out, but I forced it down. "An accident," I whispered. "Don't ask."

His face hardened into a mask of pure ice.

Those three words hung in the stagnant air of the studio. I had used them once before. Two years ago, on the morning of our pre-wedding medical checkup. Someone had anonymously slipped a printed tip to the doctor about my miscarriage history. Damien had cornered me in the sterile white hallway of the hospital, holding the doctor's chart, demanding an explanation. I had given him the exact same answer then.

He remembered. I saw the recognition flash in his dark eyes, followed immediately by a sneer that curled his lip into something cold and final. Whatever fragile thread of doubt had held him back, it snapped in that instant. He turned away from me without another word, the ultrasound photo still crumpled in his fist, and walked out of the studio. The door clicked shut behind him. I stood alone among the empty drafting tables, listening to his footsteps fade, and understood that the last thing I had tried to protect was already lost.

I ripped the glossy paper out of his grip, my nails scraping hard against his palm. The ultrasound photo crumpled slightly in my fist as I pulled it to my chest.

"Give it back," I demanded.

Damien lunged forward. His shadow swallowed me completely in the harsh fluorescent light. "You think you can hide this from me?"

"It belongs to me."

"Nothing in this house belongs to you," he fired back, reaching for my wrist.

Before his fingers made contact, the sharp trill of his cell phone pierced the stagnant studio air.

He stopped. His jaw locked tight. He pulled the device from his trousers and checked the glowing screen.

"Speak," Damien commanded, pressing the phone to his ear.

I backed up, pressing my spine against the edge of the drafting table.

"When?" Damien asked. His voice dropped, losing the explosive rage from seconds ago, settling into a frigid, dangerous calm.

He listened. His dark eyes dragged over me, dissecting my rigid posture, my white knuckles, the terror I tried so desperately to keep off my face.

"Fine. I will handle it," he said, and ended the call.

"Who was that?" I asked.

"Colette," he replied, sliding the phone into his pocket. "She found the back gate unlatched. Again."

"I haven't been near the back gate."

"You expect me to believe that?" Damien asked, stepping closer. "After finding you hiding a picture of a dead child? A child you refuse to explain?"

"I told you it was an accident."

"And I told you I hate liars," Damien said. He straightened his cuffs, his expression turning to stone. "Starting tomorrow, you don't leave the estate. Not for the hospital. Not for the gardens beyond the perimeter."

"You have no right to lock me in."

"Watch me," he murmured. "You stay inside the walls, Vivian. If you step foot off this property, I will burn this studio to the ground."

He turned and walked out, leaving the heavy mahogany door wide open.

By noon the next day, the heavy iron gates at the end of the driveway remained sealed shut. The security guards had new orders. No vehicles in or out without my husband's explicit approval.

I stood in the grand foyer, holding Damien's heavy wool coat. He checked his silver watch, his leather briefcase resting against the marble floor.

The front door swung open. Colette stepped inside, clutching a manila folder to her chest. She wore her standard black uniform, but her posture was entirely different today. Her shoulders were pulled back. Her chin tipped up.

"The merger documents you requested from the downtown office, sir," Colette said, handing him the file.

"Leave them on the console," Damien instructed, not looking at her.

Colette didn't step back. Instead, she moved closer to him. She reached up and smoothed a non-existent wrinkle on his suit lapel.

"The wind is awful today, sir," she said softly.

I stepped forward, the wool coat heavy in my arms. "Step away from my husband, Colette."

The maid dropped her hands, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She turned her head toward me, her eyes bright with calculated innocence.

"My apologies, Madame," Colette said. She tilted her head, sniffing the air between them. "I just noticed something strange. Why didn't Mr. Ashford wear the perfume you usually prepare for him today?"

My grip tightened on the coat collar.

"I applied it this morning," I said evenly.

"Oh?" Colette widened her eyes. "I don't smell it at all. Are you sure you didn't forget?"

"I don't forget my duties."

"Perhaps the bottle has gone bad," Colette suggested, her voice thick with fake concern.

Damien snatched his coat from my hands. "I don't have time for this."

"Have a good day at the office, sir," Colette said.

Damien shoved his arms into the sleeves and walked out the door, the heavy wood slamming shut behind him.

Colette lingered in the foyer. She offered me a small, pitying look.

"Such a shame," she whispered. "All that effort for nothing."

"Get back to the kitchen," I ordered.

"Of course, Madame. I only worry for his presentation."

She bowed her head, the mocking smile still firmly in place, and walked down the hall.

I didn't yell. I didn't chase after her. I turned around and walked straight up the grand staircase to the master bedroom.

I pushed the bedroom door open and went directly to my vanity. The polished mahogany surface was usually immaculate. Today, a dark, oily stain spread across the wood, soaking into the edge of a white lace doily.

I pulled out the top drawer.

The glass bottle lay on its side. The silver cap rested an inch away, completely unscrewed. The golden liquid had drained out, leaving only a few drops clinging to the bottom corners.

I picked up the empty glass.

I created this scent three months before my wedding. Crushed juniper and dry cedar. I mixed the oils myself, pouring them into this single, unique bottle. It was the only one in existence. I sprayed it on his lapel at seven o'clock this morning.

Now the heavy scent of concentrated cedar filled the small space, thick and suffocating.

The smell hit the back of my throat. The bedroom walls dissolved.

Metal crunched against asphalt. The stench of gasoline mixed with sharp cedar from the air freshener dangling off the rearview mirror. Blood dripped onto my forehead. Nathaniel slumped over the steering wheel, his fingers twitching against the cracked leather.

"Viv... I'm sorry I didn't..." my brother whispered, his voice drowning in the hiss of the ruptured engine.

I blinked hard, forcing the vanity mirror back into focus. My chest heaved. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.

Someone had walked into my room, unscrewed the cap, and dumped my work onto the wood.

Colette wanted me to scream. She wanted me to run downstairs, accuse her, and look like a paranoid, hysterical wife in front of the staff. She wanted Damien to hear about my erratic behavior by nightfall.

I set the empty bottle down on a dry patch of wood.

I grabbed a hand towel from the adjoining bathroom and wiped up the spilled oil. I scrubbed the mahogany until the stain faded into a dull shadow. I threw the ruined lace doily into the trash bin.

I walked back to the vanity and picked up the glass bottle by the very top of the nozzle, careful not to touch the sides.

I carried it over to the tall windows. The afternoon sun sliced through the glass panes, casting a harsh, revealing light across the room.

I held the bottle up to the glare.

My own fingerprints dotted the thick glass base, faint and smudged. But right in the center, pressed firmly against the smooth surface, sat a perfectly clear half-fingerprint. A thick smear of nude nail polish streaked across the glass right next to the print.

The exact shade Colette wore on her nails every single morning.

"Why do I smell like sterile office soap instead of the cedar you swore you applied?" Damien demanded, kicking the front door shut behind him.

It was barely six in the evening. He never came home this early.

I stood at the base of the staircase, my hand freezing on the banister. "I applied it."

"Did you?" He crossed the foyer in quick, heavy strides. "Because Colette told me a very interesting story when I walked up the driveway. She said she saw you at the corner cafe this afternoon. Laughing."

He stopped inches from my face.

"Laughing with Elias."

"I haven't left the house," I said, keeping my voice entirely flat. "You ordered the guards to lock the gates."

"Then where was your mind all day?" he snapped, his fingers digging into my shoulders. "Why do I get this miserable, sour face every single night, while he gets your smiles?"

"Let go of me, Damien."

Instead of releasing me, he yanked me forward and crushed his mouth against mine.

I shoved my hands against his chest, twisting my neck to break the contact. He clamped a hand onto the back of my head, forcing me to stay. He tasted like scotch and bitter espresso. I kicked at his shins, thrashing wildly against his iron grip.

He didn't stop. He pushed me backward until my spine hit the plaster wall.

The fight drained out of me.

I dropped my hands to my sides. I stopped moving. I let my body go completely limp, staring blankly at the crystal chandelier above his shoulder. I offered zero resistance and zero response. Just a dead, empty shell.

Damien froze.

He pulled back, his chest heaving. He stared at my lifeless expression, and a dark, violent storm broke across his eyes.

He swung his fist.

The knuckles crashed into the plaster right next to my ear, sending a shower of white dust over my shoulder.

"Can you only smile for him?" Damien roared, his voice tearing through the quiet foyer. "Was getting an abortion for him that fun?"

My numbness vanished, replaced by a blinding, white-hot fury.

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Yes," I said, enunciating every single syllable. "I only want to have his children in this lifetime."

Damien struck me.

The slap cracked like a whip across the entryway. My head snapped to the side. The force sent me stumbling to my knees, my cheek burning with a fierce, radiating heat.

Eleven months of marriage. This was the first time he had raised a hand to me.

I didn't cry. I reached into my pocket, my fingers closing around the cold, broken metal tip of Nathaniel's wax-carving knife. The sharp edge dug into my palm, grounding me.

I stood up, walked past my husband, and pulled the front door open.

Twenty-four hours later, the bass of a downtown bar thumped against the soles of my shoes. I hadn't gone back. I spent the entire day and night walking the city streets, eventually ending up in a dim corner booth with a glass of tap water.

The five-finger red mark still blazed across my left cheek.

A tall figure slid into the vinyl booth across from me.

I didn't need to look up to recognize the sharp line of his jaw. Elias. Seven years had passed since we last spoke without an audience.

"How is married life?" Elias asked, signaling the bartender for a drink. "Are you happy marrying the man you love most?"

I traced the rim of my water glass, keeping my mouth shut.

Elias leaned forward, his gaze locking onto the bruised skin of my face. "Does he know the truth about your miscarriage?"

I shook my head.

"You let him believe it was mine," Elias stated, his voice dropping into a quiet, steady rhythm. "You let the whole city believe it."

"It was the easiest way," I answered.

"For who?" Elias laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. He took the whiskey glass the bartender set down. "I loved you, Vivian. I have loved you since you were eighteen years old. Since that night on your porch when Nathaniel interrupted me."

I gripped the wax-carving knife hidden inside my coat pocket.

"I never stopped," Elias continued, staring at the amber liquid. "But I lost. I lost to your desperate, blinding love for Damien. I stepped back because I thought he would protect you." He pointed a finger at my cheek. "Clearly, I was wrong."

"Stop talking, Elias."

"Come to my place," he offered, sliding out of the booth and standing up. "You can't stay on the streets. I have a guest room."

"No." I stood up and faced him. "If I go with you, Colette's lies become the truth. Damien will use it to destroy what little I have left."

"You have nothing left, Vivian."

"I am going back to the estate," I said, walking past him toward the exit.

The taxi dropped me off at the wrought-iron gates. The guards let me through without a word.

I walked up the long, winding driveway, the gravel crunching under my shoes. The massive house stood silent against the night sky, but the living room windows glowed with a warm, yellow light.

I pushed the front door open, stepping quietly into the marble entryway.

The house was entirely quiet.

I walked toward the arched doorway of the living room.

Warm light spilled from inside. I stopped at the threshold, and the air left my lungs.