The moment the library door clicked shut, Anabel pulled out her phone. Her hands were perfectly steady. The storm inside her had passed, leaving a cold, hard clarity. She scrolled to a single contact, Chloe Price, and pressed call.
It rang twice.
"Tell me you've finally left that cold, silent house you call a home," Chloe's voice, sharp with a lawyer's precision, came through the line.
"I need you to draw up a divorce agreement," Anabel said, her voice devoid of any tremor. "I want nothing. A clean break."
A three—second silence. Anabel pictured Chloe in her sleek Manhattan office, pushing designer glasses up her nose, her mind already calculating.
"Send me your address. I'll be there in thirty minutes," Chloe said. "And don't be an idiot. We're taking every penny he owes you."
Anabel hung up. She walked to the large bay window overlooking the garden. Down below, Clark was pushing five—year—old Leo on a swing. Kathryn sat on a nearby bench, a soft blanket draped over her shoulders, watching them with a gentle, proprietary smile.
A perfect family portrait. She was the empty space around the image, meant to be ignored.
She thought of the nights she’d initiated a touch only to have him gently pull away, murmuring about being tired. It wasn't time he needed. It was a different woman. The polite rejections were no longer polite. They were a physical revulsion she could now feel on her own skin.
He hadn't been respecting her; he had been repulsed by her.
She wasn't even an object of temptation to be resisted. She was simply… nothing.
She remembered their first anniversary. He’d given her a delicate diamond necklace. She’d treasured it. Now she was certain it had been ordered by his secretary, a task checked off a list. Every memory was now suspect, tainted.
As an orphan, she had craved the idea of a family more than anything. She had poured everything into building a home with Clark, only to discover she was just a guest.
She hadn't loved Clark, she realized with a sickening lurch. She had loved the illusion of belonging.
Turning from the window, she walked out of the library and up the grand staircase. She needed a copy of their pre—nuptial financial disclosure for Chloe. It was in Clark's study.
The heavy oak door was slightly ajar. She slipped inside, the familiar scent of leather and old books offering no comfort. She went straight to the built—in filing cabinet. As she searched, her knuckles brushed against a small, nearly invisible seam in the dark wood paneling at the back of a deep shelf.
A hidden compartment.
Her heart began a slow, heavy beat against her ribs. She knew the code. His birthday. Her fingers trembled slightly as she keyed in the numbers. A soft click, and a section of the paneling receded.
There were no stock certificates or secret business deals. Just a single, thick, leather—bound photo album.
Her blood ran cold. She lifted it out. It felt heavy, weighted with secrets.
She opened it.
The first page was a photo of a teenage girl with bright, hopeful eyes, standing on a beach. Kathryn.
Anabel's breath hitched. She turned the page. Kathryn at her college graduation. Page after page. Kathryn reading in a library, a sliver of sun on her profile. Kathryn at her engagement party to Aidan, her eyes distant. Clark had been the photographer, a silent, devoted archivist of another woman’s life.
He had chronicled every stage of her existence.
Anabel flipped through the entire album. There was not a single photograph of her. Not one. In the official record of Clark Saunders' heart, she did not exist.
The soft chime of the doorbell echoed from downstairs.
"Ma'am," Maria's voice called from the hallway. "A Miss Price is here to see you."
Anabel carefully closed the album. She slid it back into its hidden space and sealed it shut. She smoothed her dress, took a deep breath, and walked out of the study, her face a calm, composed mask.
This album was crueler than the conversation in the garden. It was a meticulous, decade—long testament to her own irrelevance.
She reached the top of the stairs and saw Chloe standing in the foyer, her expression etched with worry.
Anabel descended, one deliberate step at a time. When she reached the bottom, she gave her friend a small, cold smile.
"I want him to pay," she said, her voice quiet and cold.
