The Price of a Mother's Smile

On the opening night of my gallery, my best friend's younger brother, Caleb Reed, cornered me, his body flush against mine. "That wrist of yours," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear, "holding up okay?"

My gaze dropped to the taut lines of his arm, a dull throb echoing in my own wrist. My mind stalled. "What?"

"Your wrist," he repeated, his voice a low thrum. "Can it handle the strain?"

A slow smirk tugged at my lips. "Well, if you already know I'm at my limit, you'd better not waste any time."

That night, the motion-sensor light in the gallery corner became our strobe, flashing in time with the frantic rhythm of our bodies, casting dancing shadows on the walls until dawn.

Meanwhile, my ex-husband, Grayson Prescott, could sob on any rain-slicked street corner for all I cared. I wouldn't spare him a single glance.

When my ex-husband, Grayson Prescott, begged me to play along with a fake engagement to his childhood sweetheart, Sienna Hayes—all to soothe his family's investors—he deluded himself into thinking our fractured marriage was on the mend.

"It's just for show, Jules," he'd insisted. "The party is just to keep the board steady. I swear, once it's done, we can go back to how we were."

I stayed silent, my eyes glued to the countdown on my phone ticking away the seconds to my freedom. He had no idea our marriage was already a corpse waiting to be buried—and that he'd been the one to trick me into signing the divorce papers weeks ago.

————————

1

When Grayson Prescott's mother, Genevieve, knocked over the special meal I had prepared for her for the ninth time this year, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.

I looked down at the soup-splattered tray in my hands, now also smeared with the fruit puree she’d flung at me moments before.

Every time Genevieve threw a tantrum, the food I’d painstakingly prepared was her first casualty.

"What are you looking at?" Genevieve sneered from her wheelchair, her voice slurred but sharp. "If it weren't for you, would I be trapped in this damn chair?"

I began cleaning up the mess on the floor, my fingers growing sticky with soup.

I absently brushed the stains off my white linen dress.

"Stop playing the victim!" Genevieve shrieked, grabbing the water glass from her bedside table. "Get out! I'm sick of the sight of you!"

The glass whizzed past my ear, shattering against the wall.

I walked out of the room, gently closing the door behind me before leaning against the cool hallway wall to take a deep, shaky breath.

The sterile scent of disinfectant stung my nostrils, a sharp reminder of two years spent trapped in this oppressive Hamptons mansion.

I pulled out my phone and sent Grayson a text: [Grayson, can we please hire a professional caregiver for your mom? She had another episode today…]

The message status flipped to "read," but no reply came.

I stared at the screen for ten minutes before locking my phone, deciding to head to the law firm to sign the trust documents he had mentioned.

The firm was quiet. I handed the papers Grayson had prepared to the paralegal. He glanced at them, typed something into his computer, and then his brow furrowed.

"Ms. Vance, I can't process this. According to our records, your divorce agreement finalizes in ten days."

"My what?" I must have misheard him.

The paralegal swiveled the monitor toward me. "The system shows your husband filed an irrevocable divorce agreement. It's in the final waiting period."

My fingers clenched the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning bone-white.

I suddenly remembered. Weeks ago, Grayson had shoved a stack of papers at me, muttering something about a family trust authorization. I'd been in a rush to check on Genevieve and had signed without a second glance.

The paralegal offered a sympathetic look. "Would you like to contest it?"

Whispers erupted from the people in line behind me. "Isn't that the Prescott daughter-in-law? I heard she refuses to let go."

"Yeah, if it weren't for her, his mother would never have gotten sick."

My gaze fell to the wedding band on my finger, a sharp pain twisting in my chest.

"No, that's fine," I said softly. "So I can get the final documents in ten days?"

After getting his confirmation, I fled the law firm. The scorching sunlight hit my face, but a chill seeped deep into my bones.

I hailed a car back to the Hamptons. On the way, Grayson finally texted back: [Swamped at work. We'll talk tonight.]

I opened our chat, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, a thousand furious arguments screaming for release. In the end, I typed nothing.

The mansion hallways were unnervingly quiet. As I neared my mother-in-law's room, I heard peals of laughter floating up from the garden.

I peered through a gap in the hedge and froze.

Genevieve was standing on the lawn—standing—holding a champagne flute, her feet planted firmly on the grass.

Sienna Hayes sat beside her, slicing into a cake, while Grayson, my "busy" husband, gently draped a shawl over Genevieve’s shoulders.

"The slurred speech was a brilliant touch," Genevieve was saying smugly. "That woman never suspected I was already getting better."

"Genevieve, you shouldn't say that," Sienna cooed. "Juliet worked so hard taking care of you."

Genevieve snorted. "She owed me. If she hadn't silenced her phone for that stupid photography hobby, I wouldn't have been stuck in that hospital for so long."

My hands tightened on the hedge, thorns digging into my palms. I looked at Grayson. His jaw was tight, but he said nothing in my defense.

"The divorce papers are signed," Genevieve said abruptly. "Why is she still here?"

Grayson's voice was low. "The finalization takes another ten days, and besides…"

"Besides what?" Genevieve cut him off. "Don't tell me you're still hung up on her. What does Juliet have that Sienna doesn't?"

"Mom!" Grayson's voice rose in warning. "My divorce is my business. Stay out of it."

Genevieve waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, whatever. The divorce is happening. If she wants to play the role of a free nanny until then, let her."

I backed away slowly, tears stinging my eyes and blurring the happy little scene.

So, I was the last one to know. The last person to find out I was being divorced.

I turned and walked away, their laughter echoing behind me like a cruel joke.

Standing by a window inside, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in two years.

"Chloe, it's me." My voice was unnervingly calm. "I need your help. Get me out of here. As soon as you can."

A beat of silence. "Are you sure, Jules?"

"I'm sure." I watched the oak leaves tremble outside the window. "It's been two years. It's time I considered the debt to this family paid in full."

I hung up and cast one last look at the garden party.

The laughter continued, so full of warmth and joy. They looked like a perfect family.

And I was the ghost haunting their perfect home.