Olivia POV

The next morning, I started the purge.

My body ached. It was a dull, persistent throb in my lower back, likely from the pregnancy, but I ignored it. I needed to move. I needed to cleanse this house of him.

I stepped into the walk-in closet. It was filled with things Marcus had bought me. Dresses that were undeniably Izzy's style, not mine. Perfumes that smelled like sandalwood—Izzy's signature scent. Jewelry that was heavy and ostentatious.

I took a large cardboard box and started discarding things into it.

The diamond necklace he gave me for our first anniversary. *Clunk.*

The silk scarves he insisted I wear. *Swish.*

The cashmere sweaters in beige and grey. *Thud.*

I was stripping away the costume he had made me wear.

"What are you doing?"

I froze. Marcus was standing in the doorway. He was dressed for work, impeccable in a navy suit.

I didn't turn around. I kept folding a sweater with trembling hands. "Spring cleaning. It's too cluttered in here."

"You're throwing away the necklace I gave you?" His voice was sharp.

"It's being sent out for cleaning," I lied. The lie tasted like ash, but it came out smooth. "And the clothes... they don't fit right anymore."

Marcus walked over. He grabbed my arm, turning me to face him. His grip was firm, bordering on painful. He looked at my face, really looked at me, for the first time in weeks.

"You look pale," he said. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Annoyance? Concern? It was hard to tell. "Are you sick?"

"I'm fine," I said, pulling my arm away. "Just tired."

He stared at my stomach for a second. My heart hammered against my ribs. If he knew about the baby, he would never let me leave. He would lock me in this house until I produced his heir.

"You've lost weight," he muttered, his eyes critical. "Eat more. I don't like skinny women."

*Izzy is curvy,* I thought.

His phone rang. He released me immediately to answer it.

"David," Marcus said. His tone shifted instantly. Respectful. Eager. "Tonight? Yes, of course. Olivia and I would be delighted."

He hung up and looked at me. "Your father is hosting a family dinner. We're going."

"I don't feel up to it," I said.

"Izzy will be there," he said. He didn't even realize he had said it. It wasn't a reason for me to go; it was the reason *he* was going. "Get dressed. Wear the blue dress. The one I bought you last month."

The one that was the exact shade of Izzy's eyes.

*

The car ride was suffocatingly silent. Rain lashed against the windows.

Halfway there, Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

"Here," he said, tossing it into my lap.

I opened it. It was a brooch. A vintage dragonfly made of sapphires. It was beautiful. It was also something I would never wear.

"Thank you," I said softly.

"It's not for you," he said. He was checking his hair in the rearview mirror. "It's for Izzy. It's a 'thank you' for her help with the merger. Give it to her when we get there. It looks better coming from you."

I stared at the brooch. He wanted his wife to give his mistress a gift. He wanted to use me as a shield for his affection.

"Okay," I said.

We arrived at my father's estate. The dinner was already in full swing. My father, David Hayes, looked frail but happy. He hugged me tightly.

"Livvie," he whispered. "You look tired."

"I'm okay, Dad."

Marcus was already across the room. He had found Izzy.

They stood close. Too close. Marcus was leaning in, whispering something that made her throw her head back and laugh. The air around them crackled. It was magnetic. It was undeniable.

I walked over. I felt like an intruder in my own reality.

"Izzy," I said.

She turned. Her smile was dazzling. Predatory. "Olivia. Darling. You look... quaint."

I held out the velvet box. "Marcus wanted you to have this."

Marcus stiffened slightly, but Izzy opened it. Her eyes lit up.

"Oh, Marcus," she breathed. "It's perfect. It matches the one you gave me in Paris years ago."

She looked at me with a triumphant smirk. "We went to a conference there. Before you two met."

"I remember," Marcus said. His voice was thick.

We sat down for dinner. I was seated next to Marcus, but I might as well have been on the moon. He spent the entire meal passing dishes to Izzy, refilling her wine glass, laughing at her jokes.

The first course arrived. Scallops.

I stared at the plate. I was deathly allergic to shellfish. Marcus knew this. I had spent our honeymoon in the ER because of a shrimp cross-contamination.

"Eat up, Olivia," Marcus said, not looking at me. He was busy cutting a piece of steak for Izzy. "The chef outdid himself."

"I can't," I said quietly.

"Don't be rude," he hissed.

"It's scallops, Marcus."

He stopped. He looked at my plate, then at me. For a second, he looked blank. Then, a flash of irritation.

"Right," he said. "I forgot. Just pick around them."

Across the table, my aunt chuckled. "Look at Marcus and Izzy. They bicker like an old married couple. If I didn't know better, I'd say you two were the ones celebrating an anniversary."

The table went silent.

Marcus didn't deny it. He didn't reach for my hand. He didn't laugh it off.

He just looked at Izzy. And in that look, I saw everything. The longing. The obsession. The love he had never, ever given to me.

I gripped my fork until the metal dug into my palm.

*I am done,* I thought, a cold resolve settling in my chest. *I am so done.*

Olivia POV

Marcus didn't drink. He was a control freak who treated his body like a temple, monitoring every calorie and every hour of sleep. So when he stumbled through the front door that night, reeking of expensive scotch, I knew it was a performance.

He collapsed onto the sofa, loosening his tie with jerky, theatrical movements. I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at him.

"Liv?" he called out. His voice was thick, deliberately slurred.

I walked down. I didn't rush to him like I used to, fluttering with concern. I walked slowly, counting every step.

"I'm here," I said.

He looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused. He reached out, grabbing my waist and pulling me between his legs. He buried his face in my stomach.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into the fabric of my dress. "I'm so sorry."

For a second, a pathetic, hopeful part of me thought he was apologizing for the dinner. For the scallops. For the years of neglect.

Then he tightened his grip, squeezing me so hard it bruised.

"Don't leave me again, Izzy," he whispered. "Please don't leave me."

I went rigid.

He wasn't holding me. He was holding a ghost.

"I'm not Izzy," I said. My voice was ice.

He looked up, blinking as if trying to clear a fog. His eyes were glassy. "You look like her. In this light... you're just like her."

"Who do you love, Marcus?" I asked. It was the question I had been too afraid to voice for three years.

He laughed. It was a cruel, broken sound. "Love? There's only her. There's always been only her. You... you're safe. You're quiet. You don't break my heart."

He slumped back against the cushions, closing his eyes. "I need you to stay. I need you to have the baby. We'll name her Isabelle. It'll be like... like getting a second chance."

The air left the room.

He wanted to name our child after his mistress.

He passed out moments later. His breathing evened out into a rhythmic snore.

I stood there, trembling. My chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon. I couldn't breathe. I gasped for air, clutching my throat, but the room was shrinking around me.

I pulled away from him. I stumbled backward, falling onto the rug.

I looked at him. He looked peaceful. He had unloaded his truth onto me and now he could sleep.

I crawled away. I literally crawled until I was out of the living room and into the shadows of the corridor.

I sat in the hallway, hugging my knees.

Then I heard his phone buzz. It was in his jacket pocket, draped over the chair back inside the room.

I stood up. I walked back in. I took the phone.

It was unlocked. He never locked it because he thought I was too trusting to check.

It was a voice memo from Izzy. Sent ten minutes ago.

I pressed play.

"Marcus, you have to calm down. You can't tell her. Not yet. We need her father's shares. Just keep playing house for a few more months. Once the baby is born, we can figure it out. She's just a vessel, remember? You told me that. She's just a placeholder."

I dropped the phone.

*Just a vessel.*

I walked to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face. I looked in the mirror. I didn't look like Izzy anymore. I looked like a stranger. A tired, broken stranger.

"No," I whispered to my reflection.

I went to the bedroom. I packed a single bag. Not clothes. Just my documents. My passport. The signed share transfer agreement.

I waited until morning.

When the sun came up, Marcus was still asleep on the sofa. I walked past him. I didn't cover him with a blanket.

I drove straight to my father's lawyer.

"I want to finalize the transfer," I told him. "And I want to file a post-nuptial agreement regarding the shares. They belong to me. Solely."

The lawyer looked at my pale face. "Are you sure, Mrs. Vance?"

"It's Ms. Hayes," I said. "And yes. I'm sure."

My phone rang. It was Marcus.

I stared at the screen.

*Answer it,* a voice in my head said. *Play the game one last time.*

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" Marcus sounded groggy. "I have a headache."

"I'm running errands," I said. My voice was steady. It scared me how steady it was.

"Izzy called," he said. "She wants to go to the memorial site today. For her brother. She shouldn't drive alone. I'm going to take her."

"Okay," I said.

"You should come," he added. It was an afterthought. A way to make it look innocent.

"Sure," I said. "I'll be there."

I hung up.

I wasn't going to the memorial to pay respects. I was going to watch my marriage burn to the ground.

Olivia POV

The memorial was a solitary slab of grey stone on a hill overlooking the Hudson. The air hung damp and biting, seeping through my coat.

I parked my car next to Marcus's Range Rover. They were already there, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the stone. From this distance, they looked like a couple mourning a shared loss.

I walked up the hill. My boots squelched into the mud.

"Olivia," Marcus said. His jaw tightened, annoyed that I had actually shown up. "You're late."

"Traffic," I said.

Izzy turned to me. She was wearing a black coat that cost more than my first car. She looked tragic and beautiful, like a widow in a film noir.

"Thank you for coming," she said, dabbing at dry eyes. "Marcus has been such a rock for me. He promised he'd take care of me forever."

She looked at Marcus. "Didn't you?"

Marcus nodded. "Always."

He didn't look at me. He looked at her with a devotion that made my stomach turn.

"I'm hungry," Izzy said suddenly, her grief vanishing instantly. "Let's go to that Italian place in the village."

We took one car. I sat in the back—the perennial third wheel in my own life.

Marcus drove. He and Izzy talked the whole way. They talked about people I didn't know, places I hadn't been, memories I didn't share.

"Remember that night in Milan?" Izzy laughed. "We missed the train and had to sleep in the station."

"Best night of my life," Marcus said softly.

I looked out the window. The rain was blurring the world into streaks of grey. I placed a hand on my stomach. *You will not have this life,* I promised the tiny cluster of cells inside me. *You will not be second best.*

At the restaurant, Marcus snatched the menu. He handed it straight to Izzy.

"Order for us," he said. "You know what I like."

Izzy smiled. She glanced at me. "Oh, Olivia, you look a bit... thick around the middle. Are you gaining weight?"

Marcus frowned. "She's been stress-eating. It's unhealthy."

"Actually," Izzy said, her eyes gleaming. "Are you pregnant?"

The air at the table froze.

"No," I said. "Just bloated."

"Good," Marcus said, exhaling sharply. He sounded relieved. "We're not ready for that yet."

The waiter arrived with a heavy tray of soups. Minestrone. Piping hot.

He stumbled. Maybe he slipped. Maybe he was just clumsy.

The tray tipped.

Time slowed down.

The scalding red liquid arched through the air. It was falling toward the space between me and Izzy.

Marcus moved. It was pure instinct. A primal reflex.

He lunged. Not toward me.

He threw his body over Izzy, shielding her completely.

The soup splattered across me.

It hit my left arm and shoulder.

"Ah!" I screamed. The pain was instant. It was white-hot agony, searing into my skin.

The waiter dropped the tray. Dishes shattered.

"Izzy!" Marcus yelled. "Are you okay? Did it touch you?"

He was frantically checking her face, her hands. He was cupping her cheeks.

"I'm fine," Izzy said, looking over his shoulder at me. Her eyes were wide, but not with concern. With triumph.

I sat there, gripping my arm. The soup was soaking into my dress, blistering my skin. I was shaking.

"Marcus," I gasped. "It burns."

He didn't turn. "Just a second, Olivia. I need to make sure Izzy isn't in shock."

"She's dry," I gritted out, tears streaming down my face. "I'm the one who's burning."

He finally looked at me. He saw my red, blistering skin. He saw the agony in my face.

And for a split second, he looked annoyed that I was interrupting his rescue of Izzy.

"It's just a spill," he said. "Go to the bathroom and run cold water on it. I'll get the check."

"You... you chose her," I whispered.

"Don't be dramatic," he snapped. "She was closer to the edge."

"You chose her," I repeated.

He turned back to Izzy. "Come on, let's get you out of here. This place is a hazard."

He helped Izzy up. He put his arm around her. And he walked her out of the restaurant.

He left me there. Sitting in a puddle of broken glass and boiling soup.

I looked at the waiter. He was terrified.

"Call an ambulance," I said. My voice was calm. The pain was so intense it had become a dull roar.

"Ma'am, your husband..."

"I don't have a husband," I said.