Chapter 3 - The Wolf in Cashmere
Vanessa stopped dead in her tracks, her hand hovering over the doorframe. Her eyes darted from my packed luggage back to my face, searching for the familiar, gullible warmth she had manipulated for two decades.
“Em? What’s… what are you doing with the suitcases?” she asked, her voice pitching up in forced, nervous cheerfulness. “Are you and Ethan going on a trip? You didn't tell me you had a vacation planned!”
I stood up slowly from the edge of the bed. I didn't smile. I didn't glare. I simply looked at her with a chilling, clinical detachment that made her swallow hard.
“Not a vacation, Vanessa,” I said softly. “A relocation.”
Vanessa blinked, her brain struggling to process the visual data. “Relocation? Where? For how long?”
“Denmark. Eighteen months. Maybe permanent, depending on how things go.”
Her jaw slackened. “Denmark? But—what about Ethan? What about your job here? You can’t just pack up and leave like that! What about our movie nights, what about the house?”
“It’s my house, Vanessa,” I reminded her, my tone dropping an octave. “And as for Ethan… well, I think he’ll manage just fine without me.”
A flicker of genuine panic crossed Vanessa’s features. She took a step forward, putting on her best victim-of-circumstance face—the expression she had perfected during her recent divorce.
“Em, you’re acting so cold,” she whispered, stepping closer and reaching out to touch my arm. “Is this because I’ve been staying here? Did Ethan complain to you about the medical bills? I can leave, I can go rent a studio apartment downtown, I don't want to be a burden on your marriage—”
“You’re not a burden on my marriage, Vanessa,” I interrupted, stepping out of her reach with deliberate grace. “Because, legally speaking, there is no marriage to burden.”
The air in the bedroom seemed to drop twenty degrees.
Vanessa’s hand froze mid-air. Her face drained of color, her foundation suddenly looking three shades too pale against her skin. “What… what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I said, walking slowly toward her until she was forced to back up toward the bedroom door. “I know about the hospital room, Vanessa. I know about the cinnamon pastries I threw in the trash outside. I know about the baby. And most importantly… I know that Michael and Ethan printed our marriage certificate on a desktop inkjet printer seven years ago.”
She gasped, stumbling backward against the doorframe, her hands flying to her mouth. “You… you heard us?”
“Every single word,” I replied smoothly. “You thought you were so clever, didn't you? Hiding behind my friendship, playing the broken divorcee while sleeping with my fake husband, waiting for the right moment to push me out so you and Ethan could play happy family in my house.”
“Em, please!” she sobbed, panic finally breaking through her composure as she slid down the doorframe onto the rug. “It wasn't supposed to happen like this! Ethan said you two were practically roommates, he said you didn't care about him, he said—!”
“He lied to you,” I said flatly. “Just like he lied to me for seven years. But unlike you, Vanessa, I don’t intend to stay around to collect the leftovers.”
Before she could form another excuse, the front door downstairs banged open.
Ethan’s heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs, keys jingling in his hand. “Babe? I’m back early, let’s grab lunch before—ah.”
May you like
Ethan stopped at the top of the stairs, his eyes locking onto Vanessa sobbing on the floor of our bedroom, and then onto my two packed suitcases sitting beside the open closet.
His face went completely white. The trap had sprung, but not the way he had planned.
