Chapter 3

Three whole days.

I haven't come home. Or at least, the "me" they still think is alive hasn't. I haven't called anyone else, either.

Damien sits on the leather sofa. His face is a thundercloud, ready to snap at any second.

A bottle of Macallan 25 sits empty on the coffee table. The crystal ashtray overflows. He rarely smokes. Now the ashtray is overflowing.

Rosa walks over with a breakfast tray. She sets it down carefully. "Mr. Blackwell, please eat something."

Damien slaps the coffee mug off the table.

Ceramic shatters against the marble floor. Dark liquid splashes everywhere.

"Where is Aria? Has she called? Texted? Anything?" he asks through gritted teeth. Every word drips with venom.

Rosa trembles. The tray rattles in her hands. "No... Mrs. Blackwell hasn't reached out. Maybe you should call her?"

"Me? Call her? In her dreams!" Damien points at the walk-in closet. "Clear out her closet. All of it. Let's see how long she can play tough!"

Rosa doesn't dare argue. She grabs garbage bags. She hauls them out, one trip at a time.

She stops when she reaches the terrace.

An orchid stands there.

A rare Dendrobium orchid. Potted in simple clay. Green leaves. Strong roots.

Damien planted it himself. On the night he proposed. He said,

"Aria, orchids are the hardest things to keep alive. They need perfect light, perfect water and perfect temperature. One mistake and they die."

"That’s what finding you felt like."

"As long as this flower lives, we will never part."

And then, somewhere along the way, he changed his mind.

But the flower just kept growing.

Watering it was my first chore every morning. Rotating the pot. Wiping the leaves. In five years, it bloomed only twice. Tiny white flowers. With a soft scent I could barely catch.

"This too?" Rosa asks softly, glancing back at him.

"Trash it! Throw out everything she touched! I don't want to see a trace of her in this house!"

CRASH!

The pot is shoved off the balcony railing. It smashes against the patio stones. Shattered into pieces.

Soil. Roots. Five years of my care. Gone in one second.

Floating in mid-air, I stare at the broken stem lying in the clay shards.

Nothing reaches me in time. Not even this.

Just then, the front door opens.

Selene walks in.

She is wearing a long ivory coat.

I freeze.

It was for our first anniversary. Damien flew to Paris and had a couture house make it just for me.

The only one in the world.

I could barely bring myself to wear it. It hung in the back of my closet. Kept safe in a dust bag.

She dug it out.

She'd even had the waist taken in to fit her.

Damien freezes too. His eyes lock onto the coat. He frowns and swallows hard.

"That coat..."

Selene glides over. She loops her arm through his. Her voice is breathy and sweet.

"Damien, I have a massive premiere event tonight. I had nothing to wear in the closet. So I borrowed one of Mrs. Blackwell's. She won't mind, right?"

He looks at the coat a beat too long. Then his face closes.

"It’s a coat, Selene. Wear it if you want." His voice turns icy.

"Thank you, Damien!"

They walk toward the foyer.

Selene catches something out of the corner of her eye. A battered leather suitcase sits by the hallway closet.

It’s my memory box, packed with photos from my childhood, college, and wedding, along with the only thing my mother ever left me.

An old locket, dark with age. Inside is a thumb-sized photo. The woman looks exactly like me. But her smile is so much brighter.

Taken when my mom was twenty-three. She passed away at twenty-five.

That locket was the only piece of jewelry she ever owned.

“Oops. Why is this out here?” She nudges the suitcase with the pointed toe of her heel—too hard to be accidental.

The suitcase tips over.

Everything spills across the floor.

Photos scatter down the hall.

The locket rolls out, bouncing twice on the marble.

And then,

CRACK!

A tiny sound.

The locket snaps open and breaks into three pieces. The hinges shatter. The photo inside slips out and lands face down.

I lunge forward.

I reach out, desperate to catch it.

My fingers pass right through the broken pieces. Through her. Through everything.

I can't hold anything anymore.

Mom.

That was the last thing Mom left me. The only proof she ever existed.

Damien glances down at the broken pieces.

Annoyance flashes in his eyes.

"Rosa. Sweep that garbage out!"

Rosa drops to her knees. Her hands shake as she gathers the pieces. Her tears hit the marble.

"Sir... that belonged to Mrs. Blackwell's mother. It was the only thing she had left of her. If she comes home and sees this..."

"She's out partying but not coming home!" Damien roars.

"Throw it all out! Put it in the outside bins! And tell her that if she doesn't come back now, she shouldn't come back at all!"

My ghost crouches beside the broken pieces.

I watch Rosa cry. She uses a dustpan to scoop up the shattered pieces.

My mother breaks across his marble floor, and the only word he has for her is garbage.