"Ah, Naomi. You're back."
Fiona Fletcher leaned against the dining chair, surveying the room like she owned it. "You haven't eaten yet, have you? Let me get you something."
On the table sat the cold, picked-over remnants of a meal for two.
Serve me food?
A power play. She was offering me their scraps like a queen tossing bones to a stray.
Once, this would have stung. Now? Nothing. No point wasting emotion on a man who couldn't even see me.
Mason barely glanced up as I kicked off my shoes.
"Good timing," he said, clipped. "You brought the sweet potato flour? Clean the dining room and kitchen. I need the counter to make wrappers for Fiona's snack."
I scoffed, refusing to look at him.
"I'm done playing nanny. Eight years, Mason. You made the mess; you clean it."
I clutched Grandma's urn tight and turned toward the hallway.
Fiona sprang from her chair, seizing my hand. Her face twisted into perfect, fragile grievance.
"Naomi, are you still upset about Sugar?" Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I can apologize. Sugar was genuinely sick, so I begged Mason to take us to the hospital. Please don't be angry with him. If it bothers you that much... I won't move in."
She bit down hard on those last words. Then, with theatrical flair, she glanced toward the corner of the living room.
I followed her gaze. Luxury luggage, stacked high.
Mason had decided stairs were too strenuous for his mistress. So he'd simply moved her in.
He strode over and pulled Fiona into his arms, shielding her like a priceless antique.
"Why are you explaining yourself to her?" His voice was ice. "Letting you move in was my decision. I don't need her permission."
He turned his cold stare on me. "Clean the kitchen. Now. Then pack your things and vacate the master bedroom. Move to the guest room."
His hand rested possessively on Fiona's waist. "Fiona twisted her back last night. The doctor said she needs a proper mattress. She sleeps in the master bedroom now. You take the guest room—or the study. I don't care."
His tone was indistinguishable from how one might address a servant.
A bitter taste coated my tongue. Eight years. You'd treat a dog with more warmth. But in Mason's eyes, I ranked lower than livestock. The master bedroom—our bridal suite—and he was giving it away without a second thought.
I didn't argue. Didn't scream. Just walked past them, expression stony.
"No need to pack. I'm moving out. Do whatever you want."
Out of sight, out of mind. I just wanted to escape.
But as I stepped forward, Fiona lunged, latching onto my arm.
To an observer, it might have looked like a plea for forgiveness. But I felt her nails dig in. Instinctively, I jerked back to shake her off.
It happened in a blur.
Fiona crumpled to the floor with a theatrical cry. The sudden motion knocked the urn from my grip.
Time slowed. I watched in horror as the vessel hit the floorboards.
Crash.
The lid flew off. Grandma's ashes spilled out, scattering across the cold wood in a gray, tragic cloud.
Fiona clutched her ankle, tears streaming. "Naomi! I know you hate me, but why would you push me? I just wanted to help!"
I didn't hear her lies. Didn't see her crocodile tears. My world had narrowed to the gray powder spreading across the floor.
"Grandma—!"
I threw myself down, hands scrambling desperately to gather the ashes, a scream tearing from my throat.
But before the sound could fully escape, a shadow loomed over me.
Slap!
The force snapped my head to the side. My cheek burned. Blood filled my mouth.
"Naomi Pruitt!" Mason roared, trembling with rage. "I didn't realize you were this vicious! How dare you push her? I told you she was injured!"
Mason's gaze cut through me, cold and sharp as a serrated blade. My lungs seized, the air trapped in my throat.
Heavy hands clamped onto my shoulders, crushing me to the floor.
"Kneel." His voice was devoid of warmth. "Apologize to Fiona. Now."
