Morning sunlight streamed into the dining room, glinting off the polished silver. Cheyenne stood at the stove, wearing one of Aracely's aprons, humming softly as she fried an egg.
Keenan sat at the head of the table, his phone held up. He took a picture.
Aracely's soul, a knot of cold fury, drifted over his shoulder to see the screen. He had opened Instagram. His official, verified account with over a million followers.
He posted the photo. The caption was simple, brutal.
My beloved wife, still trying.
It was the first time in their entire marriage he had ever posted a picture of her. A public acknowledgment that was, in reality, a trap.
Cheyenne brought a plate to the table, saw the phone, and her face paled. She understood immediately. Keenan was announcing to the world that Aracely Ross was still here, alive and well in her home. It cut off any chance of Cheyenne simply disappearing.
The private elevator doors opened, and Genevieve, Keenan's mother, swept in, holding Leo's hand.
She saw Cheyenne and sneered. "Still playing the happy homemaker, are we? It's pathetic."
Cheyenne, trapped in her role, could only lower her head and murmur a quiet greeting, just as Aracely would have done.
Leo climbed into his chair, his eyes glued to his iPad, ignoring the woman who looked exactly like his mother. Aracely's soul ached. She reached out to touch his hair, but her hand passed right through the golden strands.
"That dress is cheap," Genevieve said, her eyes raking over Cheyenne. "It's not appropriate for a Ross."
Cheyenne gritted her teeth. "I'll keep that in mind, Mother."
"Don't call me that," Genevieve snapped. "Your bloodline doesn't afford you the privilege."
Keenan sipped his coffee, watching the exchange with a detached amusement. He was enjoying this.
"Leo," Cheyenne said, her voice overly sweet, "would you like to try some of mommy's eggs?"
Leo looked up, not at her, but at his grandmother. Genevieve gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
"I'm not hungry," Leo said, turning back to his screen.
The casual cruelty of it was a physical blow to Aracely.
Keenan placed his cup down with a soft click. "You're coming with me to the MoMA gala tonight."
Cheyenne looked up, surprised. It was an event Aracely had begged to attend for years, only to be refused every time.
Genevieve frowned. "Keenan, she'll only embarrass you."
"It's my decision," he said, his voice cutting off any further argument.
Cheyenne's face lit up with triumph. She thought she was winning.
Keenan stood, adjusting his tie. He leaned down and whispered in Cheyenne's ear, his voice too low for his mother to hear. "Wear the red dress. The one you know she hates. The one she said looked like blood."
Cheyenne froze. She remembered the dress. A stunning, scarlet gown Aracely had refused to wear, but one that Cheyenne had secretly coveted.
A jolt went through Aracely's soul. He wasn't rewarding her.
He was testing her.
