I ripped the glossy paper out of his grip, my nails scraping hard against his palm. The ultrasound photo crumpled slightly in my fist as I pulled it to my chest.
"Give it back," I demanded.
Damien lunged forward. His shadow swallowed me completely in the harsh fluorescent light. "You think you can hide this from me?"
"It belongs to me."
"Nothing in this house belongs to you," he fired back, reaching for my wrist.
Before his fingers made contact, the sharp trill of his cell phone pierced the stagnant studio air.
He stopped. His jaw locked tight. He pulled the device from his trousers and checked the glowing screen.
"Speak," Damien commanded, pressing the phone to his ear.
I backed up, pressing my spine against the edge of the drafting table.
"When?" Damien asked. His voice dropped, losing the explosive rage from seconds ago, settling into a frigid, dangerous calm.
He listened. His dark eyes dragged over me, dissecting my rigid posture, my white knuckles, the terror I tried so desperately to keep off my face.
"Fine. I will handle it," he said, and ended the call.
"Who was that?" I asked.
"Colette," he replied, sliding the phone into his pocket. "She found the back gate unlatched. Again."
"I haven't been near the back gate."
"You expect me to believe that?" Damien asked, stepping closer. "After finding you hiding a picture of a dead child? A child you refuse to explain?"
"I told you it was an accident."
"And I told you I hate liars," Damien said. He straightened his cuffs, his expression turning to stone. "Starting tomorrow, you don't leave the estate. Not for the hospital. Not for the gardens beyond the perimeter."
"You have no right to lock me in."
"Watch me," he murmured. "You stay inside the walls, Vivian. If you step foot off this property, I will burn this studio to the ground."
He turned and walked out, leaving the heavy mahogany door wide open.
By noon the next day, the heavy iron gates at the end of the driveway remained sealed shut. The security guards had new orders. No vehicles in or out without my husband's explicit approval.
I stood in the grand foyer, holding Damien's heavy wool coat. He checked his silver watch, his leather briefcase resting against the marble floor.
The front door swung open. Colette stepped inside, clutching a manila folder to her chest. She wore her standard black uniform, but her posture was entirely different today. Her shoulders were pulled back. Her chin tipped up.
"The merger documents you requested from the downtown office, sir," Colette said, handing him the file.
"Leave them on the console," Damien instructed, not looking at her.
Colette didn't step back. Instead, she moved closer to him. She reached up and smoothed a non-existent wrinkle on his suit lapel.
"The wind is awful today, sir," she said softly.
I stepped forward, the wool coat heavy in my arms. "Step away from my husband, Colette."
The maid dropped her hands, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She turned her head toward me, her eyes bright with calculated innocence.
"My apologies, Madame," Colette said. She tilted her head, sniffing the air between them. "I just noticed something strange. Why didn't Mr. Ashford wear the perfume you usually prepare for him today?"
My grip tightened on the coat collar.
"I applied it this morning," I said evenly.
"Oh?" Colette widened her eyes. "I don't smell it at all. Are you sure you didn't forget?"
"I don't forget my duties."
"Perhaps the bottle has gone bad," Colette suggested, her voice thick with fake concern.
Damien snatched his coat from my hands. "I don't have time for this."
"Have a good day at the office, sir," Colette said.
Damien shoved his arms into the sleeves and walked out the door, the heavy wood slamming shut behind him.
Colette lingered in the foyer. She offered me a small, pitying look.
"Such a shame," she whispered. "All that effort for nothing."
"Get back to the kitchen," I ordered.
"Of course, Madame. I only worry for his presentation."
She bowed her head, the mocking smile still firmly in place, and walked down the hall.
I didn't yell. I didn't chase after her. I turned around and walked straight up the grand staircase to the master bedroom.
I pushed the bedroom door open and went directly to my vanity. The polished mahogany surface was usually immaculate. Today, a dark, oily stain spread across the wood, soaking into the edge of a white lace doily.
I pulled out the top drawer.
The glass bottle lay on its side. The silver cap rested an inch away, completely unscrewed. The golden liquid had drained out, leaving only a few drops clinging to the bottom corners.
I picked up the empty glass.
I created this scent three months before my wedding. Crushed juniper and dry cedar. I mixed the oils myself, pouring them into this single, unique bottle. It was the only one in existence. I sprayed it on his lapel at seven o'clock this morning.
Now the heavy scent of concentrated cedar filled the small space, thick and suffocating.
The smell hit the back of my throat. The bedroom walls dissolved.
Metal crunched against asphalt. The stench of gasoline mixed with sharp cedar from the air freshener dangling off the rearview mirror. Blood dripped onto my forehead. Nathaniel slumped over the steering wheel, his fingers twitching against the cracked leather.
"Viv... I'm sorry I didn't..." my brother whispered, his voice drowning in the hiss of the ruptured engine.
I blinked hard, forcing the vanity mirror back into focus. My chest heaved. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.
Someone had walked into my room, unscrewed the cap, and dumped my work onto the wood.
Colette wanted me to scream. She wanted me to run downstairs, accuse her, and look like a paranoid, hysterical wife in front of the staff. She wanted Damien to hear about my erratic behavior by nightfall.
I set the empty bottle down on a dry patch of wood.
I grabbed a hand towel from the adjoining bathroom and wiped up the spilled oil. I scrubbed the mahogany until the stain faded into a dull shadow. I threw the ruined lace doily into the trash bin.
I walked back to the vanity and picked up the glass bottle by the very top of the nozzle, careful not to touch the sides.
I carried it over to the tall windows. The afternoon sun sliced through the glass panes, casting a harsh, revealing light across the room.
I held the bottle up to the glare.
My own fingerprints dotted the thick glass base, faint and smudged. But right in the center, pressed firmly against the smooth surface, sat a perfectly clear half-fingerprint. A thick smear of nude nail polish streaked across the glass right next to the print.
The exact shade Colette wore on her nails every single morning.
