Chapter 2

The next morning, I storm into Marcus's study, the forged marriage certificate clutched in my trembling hand. He sits behind his mahogany desk, sipping coffee from a porcelain cup, the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His eyes narrow as he takes in my disheveled appearance, my hair tangled, my eyes wild.

"Marcus," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "what is this?" I slam the certificate onto his desk, the sound echoing in the silent room.

He glances at the paper, then back at me, a condescending smile playing on his lips. "Grace, we've talked about your paranoia before. You're letting it get the better of you."

I shake my head, my heart splintering into a thousand jagged pieces. "Paranoia? This is a fake, Marcus. Our whole marriage is a lie."

He pushes his chair back and stands, smoothing his tailored suit jacket. "You're not thinking clearly, sweetheart. The stress of your diagnosis is getting to you."

I take a step back, my hands balling into fists. "Don't call me that. Don't you dare call me that."

He sighs, his voice dripping with false concern. "Grace, I'm worried about you. Maybe you should take some time to rest."

I turn away, unable to look at him anymore. The man I thought I knew—the man I loved—doesn't exist. In his place stands a stranger, a manipulator, a liar.

Later, in the ornate living room of our penthouse, Victoria lounges on the velvet sofa, sipping tea from a delicate china cup. She looks up as I enter, a cold smile curving her lips.

"Grace, darling," she says, her voice sweet as poison, "come see what I found." She gestures to the antique cabinet in the corner, where my grandmother's Tiffany lamp sits, its intricate design glinting in the soft light.

I approach her slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. "What are you doing, Victoria?"

She shrugs, her eyes glinting with malice. "Just admiring your little trinket. Though I have to say, it clashes horribly with the decor."

Before I can react, she picks up the lamp and hurls it across the room. The sound of shattering crystal fills the air, the fragments spraying across the marble floor like shards of ice.

"Victoria!" I scream, my voice raw with anguish. I drop to my knees, gathering the pieces of the lamp, my hands shaking with rage and grief. My grandmother's lamp—the last reminder of my family, of my childhood—lies broken before me.

Marcus enters the room, his arms crossed over his chest. He glances at the mess, then at Victoria, who's watching me with a satisfied smirk.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice calm, almost bored.

Victoria shrugs again. "It was an accident, Marcus. I didn't realize how fragile it was."

Marcus turns to me, his expression unreadable. "Dispose of the pieces, Grace. We don't need this kind of clutter in the house."

I look up at him, my eyes burning with tears. "This was my grandmother's. The only thing I have left of her."

He sighs, his impatience evident. "Then keep one piece as a memento. The rest goes."

I clench my jaw, my hands tightening around the fragments of the lamp. "You're just going to throw it away? Like it means nothing?"

Marcus shrugs. "It's just a thing, Grace. It can be replaced."

Later, I stand at the window, watching as Marcus tosses the broken pieces of my grandmother's lamp into a trash can outside. He doesn't even have the decency to throw it away discreetly; instead, he hands the fragments to a homeless man who rummages through the bin, probably thinking he's found something valuable.

I press my hand to my mouth, stifling the scream that threatens to tear from my throat. My body shakes with rage and grief, my heart heavy with the weight of their cruelty. They've taken everything from me—my love, my trust, my family. And now, they're taking away the last pieces of my past.

As I turn away from the window, I catch a glimpse of Victoria watching me from the doorway, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She knows exactly what she's done, and she's reveling in it.

I straighten my spine, my resolve hardening. They think they've won, but they're wrong. I may be dying, but I'm not dead yet. And I'll make sure they pay for every ounce of pain they've caused me.