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.

I didn't go back to the garden. I left, taking a cab to our penthouse in Manhattan.

That evening, when Grayson pushed the door open, I was zipping up my suitcase.

I didn't look at him. "Genevieve tripped me with her cane today. Again. It was deliberate," I said, my voice flat. "She told me I wasn't as thoughtful as Sienna."

Grayson loosened his tie, his voice frayed with impatience. "She's been sick for two years, Juliet. She's allowed to be difficult. Just indulge her. What's the big deal?"

"Indulge her?" A laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped my lips. I held up the linen dress I’d been wearing, now stained with soup. "She did this."

"That's enough!" Grayson snatched the dress from my hand, throwing it onto the bed. "You never used to be like this!"

"Like what?" I shot to my feet, my eyes stinging. "Like getting up at five every single morning to cook her goddamn hypoallergenic meals? Or kneeling on the floor to scrub carpets she deliberately ruins, all while she calls me a jinx?"

Grayson swallowed, turning his face away. "You know why Mom had that anaphylactic shock."

The room fell silent, the accusation hanging thick in the air.

My nails dug into my palms.

That phone call.

Two years ago, on our anniversary, I’d just wrapped a major architectural photography shoot. Genevieve called.

"Don't answer it," I'd whispered, my arms wrapped around his waist. "Not tonight. It's our anniversary…"

Grayson hesitated, then bent to kiss me. "Just a minute."

"You always say that!" My nerves raw with exhaustion, I snapped and grabbed the phone, silencing it. "Don't you dare answer that. If you do, this night is over!"

I remembered the look in his eyes: shock, helplessness, and finally, weary resignation.

He sighed, set the phone aside, and pulled me into his arms. "Okay. I won't."

The next day, we got the call. Genevieve had gone into severe anaphylactic shock. Because no one had answered her calls for help, treatment was delayed. She almost died.

"Yes, I owe her," I admitted, my voice hoarse. "So for two years, I sacrificed my career, pouring everything I had into caring for her. And for what? To be tormented by her and have Sienna treat me like the hired help?"

Grayson ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Sienna's moving in tomorrow."

"What?"

"My mom likes having her around." His tone softened, like he was reasoning with a difficult child. "It's just for a few months. As soon as she's stable, Sienna will leave."

"Grayson," I cut in softly. "I went to the law firm today."

He went completely still.

"The paralegal said our divorce is final in ten days." I watched his face turn to stone. "Those papers you had me sign… that was a divorce agreement, wasn't it?"

"So you know!" He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. "Mom forced me to do it! It was just to keep her happy for a while!"

"And you couldn't tell me?" I wrenched my hand from his grasp. "Seven years, Grayson. I don't even get the right to know?"

He exploded. "Can you stop being so damn aggressive? Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? I'm caught in the middle!"

I froze.

The first time he took me to meet his family. At a high-profile New York gala, his mother had announced to a table of socialites, "The only Prescott daughter-in-law will be Sienna." Later, on a balcony, Grayson held me while I cried. "My mom's just got a bad temper, just bear with her. It's so hard for me, being stuck in the middle."

When Genevieve refused to come to our wedding, he'd said, "She just needs time, Jules. It's hard for me…"

After the accident, he knelt at my feet, begging me to give up my career to care for her. "Jules, you're the only one who can help me through this."

Every time, I had been the one to yield.

"Grayson," I said, a sudden, profound exhaustion settling over me. "Do you still love me?"

The hesitation was only a fraction of a second, but I heard it. "Of course I do!" he blurted out.

"Juliet, don't make this harder than it has to be."

I sighed. Ten days. That's all that was left. I could indulge him for ten more days.

I gave a slight, silent nod.

"Sienna will stay in the guest room," Grayson said, a clumsy attempt to smooth things over. "You should get some rest."

The moment the door clicked shut, I sank onto the bed.

A sliver of moonlight cut through the curtains, illuminating a dusty photo frame on the nightstand.

In the picture, Grayson was giving me a piggyback ride on a beach in Santorini. A wave had just soaked my dress, and he’d turned his head, laughing. "Hold on tight, Mrs. Prescott!"

Seven years of love. It felt as solid as a mountain and as fragile as glass.

I pulled out my phone and sent a message: [The plan is on. Pick me up in ten days.]

Just as I hit send, the sound of shattering glass echoed from downstairs.

I went down to see Genevieve being pushed into the foyer in her wheelchair by Sienna. A team of movers followed, carrying boxes and luggage.

"Well, look who decided to come down," Genevieve said, her eyelids heavy with disdain. "I thought you planned to hide in your room all night."

Sienna stood beside her, holding a cup of herbal tea. "Genevieve just finished her physical therapy," she said sweetly. "The doctor said she needs to be more active."

"Physical therapy?" My eyes dropped to her legs.

Genevieve patted her own knee smugly. "Surprised? The doctor says I'm making a wonderful recovery. I should be back on my feet in no time."

She gestured upstairs. "Sienna is staying with us now. It'll be easier for her to take care of me. Your opinion on the matter is irrelevant."

I said nothing, just turned my head and met Grayson's gaze with a faint smile.

He cleared his throat. "Juliet already agreed," he said in a low voice.

Genevieve froze, then let out a grunt. "Hmph. About time she learned her place."

Sienna immediately beamed, linking her arm with Genevieve's.

"Genevieve, let me help get your things upstairs."

Genevieve patted her hand. "Go on. Pick any room you like."

Sienna's eyes lit up. She hurried upstairs, and moments later, a loud crash echoed from the second floor.

I looked up. Sienna was directing the staff to take down my photography wall.

That wall was a map of the world Grayson and I had explored together, from the Northern Lights in Iceland to the deserts of Morocco.

"Ugh, these are so gloomy. They totally clash with the aesthetic we're going for now," Sienna chirped, tossing a frame aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist. Then she pointed to a large group photo. "Take that one down, too. It's an eyesore."

One by one, the photos came down, including a shot from our small wedding in Central Park.

Grayson stood at the top of the stairs, his brow furrowed. He looked like he wanted to protest, but instead, his eyes found mine. "Just… let her. We can hang them back up later."

I smiled and said nothing.

Sienna peeked over the railing, her voice cloyingly sweet. "Grayson, I want the master bedroom! It's closer to Genevieve's room, so I can take better care of her."

Genevieve nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes, that's very thoughtful of you, dear."

Grayson’s eyes flickered to me, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

But I just nodded calmly. "Fine. I'll move to the guest room."

I turned to head upstairs, but Grayson's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. "You're not yourself."

I turned back. "What's wrong? Isn't this what you all wanted?"

"But you…" He frowned, confused. "You're not usually like this."

"The 'me' from before?" I gave a dry laugh. "I thought this docile version was what you always wanted."

I shook off his hand, walked straight into the master bedroom, and began to pack.

Grayson followed, leaning against the doorframe, watching as I folded my clothes and placed them in my suitcase. Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore.

"What is wrong with you?"

I glanced up at him. "I'm making room."

He swallowed hard, but for once, he had nothing to say.