Ellyn stared at the grainy photo on her phone screen. The figure was blurry, captured through a telephoto lens, but the posture was unmistakable. The blonde woman had a delicate, fragile grace that Ellyn knew by heart.
Izabella Macdonald.
Acid rose in Ellyn's throat, mixing with the bitterness of the pill she had just swallowed. Her stomach cramped, a sharp, twisting pain that forced her to double over slightly against the vanity.
Maria cleared her throat from the doorway. "Breakfast, Mrs. Burnett?"
"No," Ellyn said, locking her phone screen. Her hands were trembling. "I'm not hungry."
"Mr. Burnett called the house line," Maria said, her voice lowering. "He said he will be staying at the penthouse in the city for the next few days. To be closer to the office."
Ellyn closed her eyes. The penthouse. It was a lie. The office was a twenty-minute drive from their Long Island estate-without traffic. During the morning rush, the commute into Manhattan could easily stretch to two grueling hours, but even that didn't justify abandoning his home. The penthouse was where he used to take Izabella.
"Fine," Ellyn said. "Prepare the car. I'm going out."
An hour later, Ellyn sat on the cold stone bench in the private cemetery where her mother was buried. The wind whipped her hair across her face, stinging her cheeks.
Her phone rang. It was Vera.
"Tell me you didn't see the news," Vera said, skipping the greeting.
"I saw it."
"He's a bastard, Ellyn. A complete bastard. She's back. Izabella is actually back in New York." Vera's voice was high with indignation. "And the press is already spinning it. They're calling her the 'Exiled Queen' and you the... well, you know."
"The Usurper," Ellyn finished. "The Gold Digger."
"It's not just that," Vera hesitated. "The narrative is that she's a victim. That she only left because she was heartbroken over... the scandal. Hardy is playing into it. He let himself be photographed."
Ellyn hung up. She pressed her palms against the rough granite of her mother's headstone. Three years. Three years of trying to be the perfect wife, of erasing herself to fit into the Burnett mold, and one photo of Izabella undid it all.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, the caller ID made her teeth clench. Brenda Pennington.
"Where is the transfer, Ellyn?" Her stepmother's voice was a screech. "Your father has creditors lining up at the office."
"The allowance just cleared," Ellyn said, fatigue seeping into her bones. "I'll send it."
"You better. Or I'll come down to that fancy estate and scream about how the Burnetts treat their in-laws until the paparazzi show up."
Ellyn ended the call and opened her banking app. She transferred the funds-Hardy's money-to the black hole that was the Pennington family accounts. It was the price of keeping her past quiet.
She switched apps, opening a secure, encrypted email client.
Subject: Acquisition Offer - Skim
To: E.
From: UMi Fashion Group
Dear E, your latest collection has disrupted the market. Our offer stands. We are ready to discuss the buyout on your terms.
Ellyn stared at the screen. "Skim" was hers. Her designs, her vision, built in the shadows while she played the trophy wife. It was her escape hatch.
She didn't reply. Not yet.
When she returned to the estate, a garment bag was hanging on the door of her dressing room. A note from Hardy's executive assistant was pinned to it.
For the Charity Gala tomorrow. Mr. Burnett expects you at 7:00 PM.
Ellyn unzipped the bag. It was a stunning dress, but it wasn't a gift. It was a uniform. She looked in the mirror and practiced a smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
