“Corinne,” he once murmured, his tone low, intimate, his arm draped lazily across my shoulders. “You’d care for me better than anyone—better even than Isolde. I love her, I want her, yes, but her career will always come first. You, though… you’re different. You’d stay. You’d serve. And for that, I’ll give you the life you’ve always dreamed of.”
And I believed him. Fool that I was, I let myself believe. I let him register our marriage—no vows, no guests, no flowers. Just signatures on government paper and a promise I carved into my heart like gospel. I was hopelessly in love. But now I see it clearly: he never chose me. I was never his first. I was the consolation prize. The safe harbor when Isolde flew toward her ambitions.
And now? I was nothing more than the maid who happened to bear his last name.
The very next morning, no one asked if I’d slept. No one noticed the red in my eyes or the way my hands shook as I poured their coffee. Instead, the living room brimmed with chatter and shallow delight. The smell of new fabric lingered as designer bags were strewn across the couch.
My son beamed at me, voice bright. “Mom, guess what? There’s going to be a wedding on the cruise! Isn’t that amazing?”
I forced a blink, feigning ignorance. “A wedding?”
Isolde stood nearby, holding a white dress against herself in the mirror, studying her reflection with practiced grace.
I frowned, voice tentative. “Who’s getting married? Why can’t I go?”
Father scoffed, like my question was laughable. “You’ll stay here and look after the house, of course. And what do you care about weddings? It’s just someone from Alaric’s business circle. Nothing to do with you.”
I curved my lips into a weak smile. “Of course.”
My son chuckled, oblivious. “Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll bring back souvenirs. Maybe those herbal oils you like.”
Isolde giggled softly. “We’ll send photos too, so you won’t miss anything.”
My chest tightened.
Alaric appeared, adjusting his crisp shirt. Without a glance, he shoved a stack of clothes into my arms. “Iron these. Carefully. They’re expensive.”
The morning of departure was chaos—perfume in the air, luggage zipping shut, hurried instructions flying across the room. I stood in silence, folding scarves, fixing collars, smoothing shirts. A shadow in my own home.
Then a sudden cry. “My dress!” Isolde’s voice rang out. “There’s a hole in it!”
Everyone rushed to her. The elegant white gown—flawless, costly—had a small tear at the hem. But to her, it was disaster.
Alaric’s face darkened. “Corinne! What did you do?!”
“I—I didn’t do anything. I sent it to the shop with the others, they must have—”
“I told you to handle it yourself! Not strangers! Do you know how much this costs? Are you going to pay for it?!”
“I… I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Isolde soothed, stepping in like some benevolent angel. “Don’t be too hard on her. She is your wife.”
Alaric sneered. “Yeah. My useless wife.”
He slung his arm around Isolde and turned away. “Come on. We’ll get you another one. We can’t be late.”
He tossed the ruined dress at me, not sparing a second look.
As they left with their suitcases, voices bright with laughter, I stood rooted to the spot. Watching the doorway where they had disappeared, feeling emptier than ever. Not one of them looked back. Not even once.
