Giselle turned. She was holding another document, waving it like a fan. "Not so fast. We need to settle the accounts."
"I signed the papers," Giselle said, hugging her arms around herself. "I'm leaving."
"You signed the divorce," Buna sneered, stepping closer. "Now we execute the prenup. Clause 14: In the event of fraud, all assets, gifts, and jewelry provided by the Villarreal family must be returned immediately."
She snapped her fingers. "Search her."
Giselle's eyes widened. "What? No. You can't-"
The female head of housekeeping stepped forward. Giselle stepped back, her back hitting the bodyguard's chest. She felt violated as hands patted down her pockets, checking the lining of her coat.
Joseph stood in the doorway of the study. He was leaning against the frame, watching. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched.
"The necklace," Buna commanded.
Giselle's hand went to her throat. The diamond solitaire. It was an anniversary gift. "Joseph gave this to me," she whispered, looking at him. "It's mine."
"Family trust money paid for it," the lawyer stated monotonously. "Technically, it belongs to the estate."
Giselle looked at Joseph. Say something, she begged silently. Please, just have one ounce of decency.
He checked his watch.
Something inside Giselle snapped. The last thread of hope, the last pathetic wish that he cared, disintegrated.
She unclasped the necklace. She didn't hand it to Buna. She dropped it onto the silver tray the butler was holding. It landed with a sharp clatter.
Buna's eyes dropped to her left hand. "And the ring."
Giselle's breath hitched. The pink diamond. He had put it on her finger. He had promised...
"She doesn't deserve to wear it," Buna hissed. "That stone belongs to the future mistress of this house. To Clydie."
Giselle grabbed the ring. Her knuckles turned white as she yanked it over her knuckle. It scraped her skin, leaving a red mark.
She didn't put it on the tray.
She turned to Joseph. She locked eyes with him. She threw it.
The ring sailed through the air and hit the carpet right in front of his polished shoes. It bounced once and settled near his toe.
Joseph looked down at the ring. His jaw tightened. His hand twitched by his side, almost as if he wanted to reach for it. A strange current of electricity shot through his arm, a primal urge to stop this, but he crushed it instantly. He stayed rooted to the spot.
"Get out," Buna shrieked. "Get this trash out of my house!"
Giselle ran. She ran up the stairs to the guest room they had moved her into last week. She grabbed the old, battered suitcase she had arrived with three years ago. She threw in her jeans, her old sweaters, her ID. Nothing that they had bought. Nothing that smelled like this house.
She dragged the suitcase down the grand staircase. The wheels bumped loudly on each step.
The front door opened. A gust of wind and rain blew in, along with a woman in a shimmering cocktail dress.
Clydie Woods.
She shook out her umbrella, handing it to a maid. She looked dry, warm, and expensive. She saw Giselle standing there, wet-eyed and disheveled, dragging a broken suitcase.
"Oh, Giselle," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. She walked over, her heels clicking. She leaned in close, so only Giselle could hear. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of him. Better than a fake like you ever could."
She pulled back and smiled brightly. "Safe travels."
Giselle didn't trust herself to speak. She pushed past her. The butler held the door open, his face full of pity.
"Mrs. Villarreal..." he started.
"Don't," Giselle said.
She stepped out onto the porch. The rain was torrential. It came down in sheets, instantly soaking her blouse.
"No car," Buna yelled from the foyer. "Villarreal cars are for family. She walks."
Giselle gripped the handle of her suitcase. The driveway was long. A mile to the main gate.
She started walking. The wind whipped her hair across her face, blinding her. The cold rain soaked through her clothes, chilling her to the bone. Her shoes squelched in the puddles.
Halfway down the drive, the wheel of her suitcase caught in a crack in the cobblestones. She yanked it. The handle snapped. The suitcase tipped over, spilling her humble clothes into the mud.
Giselle stopped. She stared at her clothes soaking in the dirty water.
She fell to her knees. The dam broke. She sobbed, the sound torn from her throat, lost in the roar of the storm. She gathered her muddy sweaters, hugging them to her chest. She was twenty-three years old, and she had nothing. No family. No money. No husband.
High above, in the master bedroom window, Joseph stood in the dark. He watched the small figure collapse in the rain. He pressed his hand against the cold glass. His chest ached with a strange, hollow pain he couldn't name. It felt like a phantom limb syndrome, an ache for something that was no longer there.
Giselle stood up. She shoved the wet clothes back into the broken case. She wiped the mud and tears from her face.
Survive, she told herself. Just survive.
She dragged the case the rest of the way. She reached the iron gates. They opened slowly.
She stepped out onto the public road. It was pitch black.
Then, blinding white light flooded her vision.
---
