The morning sun hit the duvet with a cruel brightness. Gisele woke up reaching for a body that wasn't there. The cold sheets on the left side of the bed were a reminder that the nightmare hadn't ended when she closed her eyes.
She got up, her movements mechanical. Brush teeth. Wash face. Apply foundation to cover the dark circles that looked like bruises under her eyes. She was a doll being painted.
Her phone chimed. A multimedia message from an unknown number.
She tapped the screen. The image loaded slowly. It was a close-up of two hands intertwined on a pristine white hospital sheet. One hand was large, tanned, with a familiar signet ring on the pinky. Evander. The other hand was pale, frail, with an IV line taped to the wrist.
Text appeared below the image: Sister, thank you for borrowing him for five years. But he is home now.
Gisele dropped the phone on the vanity. Bile rose in her throat, hot and acidic. She rushed to the toilet and dry heaved, her stomach contracting violently, but there was nothing to expel.
The image triggered a slide show in her brain she couldn't stop. The basement of the Mueller estate. Fifteen-year-old Daneen sitting on the stairs, swinging her legs, holding a riding crop. Her mother, Beatrice, standing in the shadows, her voice ice. Let her teach you a lesson, Gisele. You don't outshine your sister.
Gisele splashed freezing water on her face, gasping for air. The water dripped onto her silk robe, soaking the fabric. She looked at the closet behind her. Rows of designer dresses, all bought by Evander. All chosen by him. White. Pastels. Soft fabrics.
She hated them.
She walked into the closet and bypassed the silk and cashmere. She reached for the top shelf and pulled down a battered canvas duffel bag. It was the only thing she had brought with her five years ago.
She didn't pack clothes. She packed her passport. Her social security card. And the external hard drive wrapped in a t-shirt-the drive that contained every sketch, every CAD file, every pattern for the "Sunny" brand.
She logged into her bank account on her phone. Access Denied. The joint account she shared with Evander-frozen. Her personal credit card-cancelled.
Daneen moved fast.
Gisele's hands shook, but she forced a smile. A cold, predatory smile. They thought she was stupid. They thought she was a pet. She opened a separate app, a secure offshore banking interface she had set up three years ago under a pseudonym. The balance was modest, but it was hers. Money earned from freelance consulting she had done in the dead of night while Evander slept.
She dialed a number.
Lana?
The voice on the other end was warm, maternal. Gisele? Honey, it's been ages.
Gisele gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. That fellowship in Los Angeles. The one at the Institute. Is it still open?
There was a pause. You're getting married, Gisele. Evander made it sound like...
There is no marriage, Gisele cut in, her voice flat. I need to leave. Today.
Lana didn't ask questions. She was a veteran of the industry; she knew the sound of a woman burning bridges. The spot is yours. Come whenever you can.
Gisele hung up. She felt lighter. Untethered.
The doorbell rang.
Panic spiked in her chest. She checked the peephole. It was Xavier, Evander's personal assistant. A man who knew everything and said nothing.
Gisele took a deep breath. She smoothed her hair. She opened the door.
Ms. Mueller, Xavier said, holding out a black velvet box. Mr. Mathews sends his apologies. Last night was unavoidable.
Gisele took the box. She opened it. A diamond necklace glittered inside. A solitaire pendant. She recognized it immediately. It was the exact necklace Daneen had circled in a Vogue magazine two weeks ago, leaving it on the coffee table for Evander to see.
It wasn't a gift. It was a leftover.
Thank you, Xavier, Gisele said. Her voice was steady.
She closed the door. She walked to the kitchen trash can. She didn't look at the diamonds again. She dropped the velvet box into the garbage, amidst coffee grounds and eggshells. The lid of the can snapped shut.
