Chapter 2

Scarlett POV

The next morning, I was woken by noise from downstairs.

Jackson was back.

And he'd brought Phoebe and Thomas with him.

I stood at the top of the stairs, watching the harmonious scene in the living room.

Phoebe wore Jackson's shirt, the oversized hem covering her thighs, making her look small and delicate.

She sat on the sofa holding a cup of hot milk.

Thomas nestled in her arms, mouth open wide waiting for her to feed him.

Jackson sat beside them cutting fruit, his knife skills clumsy, the peel breaking several times.

But he was patient.

You should know, in the past when I wanted fruit, he'd only frown and say: "If you want it, cut it yourself. I'm not your servant."

"Scarlett's awake?"

Phoebe noticed me first.

She tried to stand, but Jackson pressed her shoulder down.

"Sit still. The doctor said you're weak, don't move around."

Jackson's voice was heavy. When he turned to look at me, it instantly went cold.

"Since you're up, come down and cook. Anna took the day off, and Phoebe wants your seafood chowder."

My fingers clenched the banister, knuckles bleaching white.

Seafood chowder.

The whole city knew Phoebe was allergic to seafood.

Was this a test? A deliberate humiliation?

Or had he simply forgotten, in the space between her and me, which one of us carried the allergy?

"She's allergic to seafood," I said flatly.

Jackson's hand cutting fruit paused. The blade sliced his thumb.

A bead of blood welled up.

Phoebe cried out, immediately grabbing his hand and putting it in her mouth.

Jackson didn't push her away. Instead, he looked at her with tender eyes.

"Phoebe's still so thoughtful."

Then he looked up at me, his gaze carrying reproach. "If you got it wrong, just admit it. Don't make excuses. I never saw your memory being this bad before."

Before?

How had I lived before?

Every meal had to accommodate everyone's tastes.

Jackson didn't eat garlic, Thomas didn't eat carrots or bell peppers.

If even a trace of something they disliked appeared in a dish, the entire table of food would be dumped straight into the trash.

I remembered everyone's preferences, but no one remembered I didn't eat cilantro.

"Maybe I did get it wrong."

I didn't argue, just turned and walked into the kitchen.

Since he wanted his sweetheart to have seafood soup, I'd make it.

Processing the lobster, chopping onions, simmering the broth.

Every step I executed methodically.

The kitchen's glass door wasn't fully closed.

Fragments of conversation from the living room drifted in.

"Jackson, is Scarlett angry?"

That was Phoebe's voice, tinged with grievance. "Maybe I should move out. I'm not as clingy as Thomas, it's fine."

"This is my house. You can stay as long as you want."

Jackson's voice was iron. "Don't worry about her. With that temper, she'll be fine in a couple of days."

"But.-"

"No buts. Thomas needs you too. Look at him this morning. When has he ever asked for Scarlett?"

Thomas's high voice piped up. "I don't want that bad lady! I want Phoebe to be my mommy!"

Crash.

I turned the faucet to full blast.

Water rushed over the cold porcelain bowl, drowning out those piercing voices.

I looked down at the sink.

A expressionless face reflected back at me.

In the past, hearing words like these would hurt. I'd hide under the covers and cry all night.

I'd reflect on whether I wasn't doing enough, whether I wasn't gentle enough, considerate enough.

But now, my heart felt nothing.

Like watching a terrible reality show.

Just absurd.

Half an hour later, I carried the steaming pot of soup out of the kitchen.

Jackson was feeding Phoebe freshly cut apple pieces.

Seeing me emerge, he didn't even lift an eyelid.

"Leave it there. Let it cool before serving."

I set the soup on the dining table without a word, then turned to go upstairs.

"Stop."

Jackson called out.

He set down the apple, pulled out a tissue to wipe his hands, his tone casual: "Clear out your studio. Phoebe needs it for yoga."

My footsteps stopped.

That studio was my only private space in this house.

It held my unfinished artwork, and the easel my mother had left me.

That was my bottom line.

"There's a gym downstairs," I said.

"The gym doesn't have good lighting." Jackson frowned. "I told you to clear it out, so clear it out. Why all the back talk? Those worthless paintings don't sell for much anyway. They're just taking up space."

Worthless paintings.

Those were my heart and soul.

Proof that I'd once dreamed of becoming an artist.

In this billionaire's eyes, they were just garbage taking up room.

"Understood."

I heard myself say.

No argument, no hysterics.

Jackson seemed somewhat surprised by my compliance, but he didn't give it much thought, just waved his hand dismissing me.

I returned to my room and pulled out a large black trash bag.

I walked into the studio.

The painting I'd worked on for three months, "Deep Sea," stood quietly on the easel.

In the image, a drowning woman reached upward, trying to grasp that beam of light filtering down.

I picked up the utility knife.

The sharp blade sliced through canvas, making a harsh tearing sound.

Once, twice, three times.

The complete image shattered into pieces.

I stuffed the fragments into the trash bag, along with the paints, brushes, and the easel my mother had left behind.

It was all cleared out in under ten minutes.

The once-full room turned hollow and bare.

Only the faint, sharp smell of turpentine still hung in the air.

Nothing of Scarlett remained here now.

And nothing of her remained in this house.