Chapter 3
I stood in our bedroom, my hands trembling as I gathered the courage to speak the words I'd been holding back for years.
"Jason," I said softly, watching him adjust his tie in the mirror. "I need to talk to you."
He turned, his expression already guarded. "About what, Isabella?"
"About us." My voice cracked slightly. "About how I feel like a ghost in my own home."
His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I'm talking about how every day, I wake up feeling more invisible than the day before. How you look through me instead of at me. How Maisie has more power in this house than I do."
"That's ridiculous," he muttered, turning back to the mirror.
"It's not ridiculous," I pressed on, desperation clawing at my throat. "It's real, Jason. I'm real. And I'm dying inside this marriage."
He stiffened, his hands pausing on his collar.
"Do you know what it feels like to be replaced by a dead woman?" I asked, tears welling in my eyes. "To have her ashes in our bedroom? To watch her sister sleep in our bed while you comfort her?"
Jason turned slowly, his face a mask of conflict.
"Can't you see what Maisie is doing?" I pleaded. "She's manipulating you. Using her sister's memory to control you. To destroy us."
Something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of recognition, perhaps. He crossed the room and suddenly, to my shock, he dropped to his knees before me.
"Isabella," he whispered, taking my hands in his. "Please don't leave me."
My breath caught. "Then make her stop. Set boundaries. Tell her she can't sleep in our bedroom anymore. That she can't treat me like I don't exist."
Jason's grip tightened on my hands. "I can't do that to her. Not after what happened to Anastasia."
"So you'd rather do this to me?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
"I'm begging you to stay," he said, his eyes desperate. "We can work through this. I need you, Isabella."
"But you won't choose me," I replied, pulling my hands away. "Not over her."
---
That night, after Jason fell asleep, I slipped out of bed and padded to the guest room where I'd begun hiding my most precious possessions—what remained of them, anyway.
I pulled out my laptop and typed "Garza Vineyards" into the search bar.
The website loaded, revealing stunning photographs of rolling hills covered in neat rows of grapevines, a majestic stone winery building, and a man with kind eyes smiling at the camera—Allan Garza.
I scrolled through the site, reading about his philosophy of winemaking, his commitment to sustainability, his passion for creating a welcoming environment for visitors.
"Peaceful," I whispered to myself. "Beautiful."
Everything our home was not.
I clicked on the "Careers" page, reading again about the position he'd offered. Wine specialist and hospitality manager. A chance to use my knowledge, my talents—to be valued for who I was, not who I was married to.
The floorboards creaked in the hallway. I quickly closed the laptop and shoved it under a pillow as Maisie's footsteps passed by the door.
I waited until they faded before retrieving it again.
In the days that followed, I moved through our house like a ghost—which, perhaps, I had already become. When Jason was at work, I would pack small items into a suitcase hidden in the back of my closet. A few books here, some jewelry there.
Maisie noticed, of course.
"Looking for something?" she asked one afternoon, watching me search for my favorite perfume bottle.
"It seems to have moved," I said carefully.
"Oh, I found it in the kitchen," she replied with a sweet smile. "I put it back in your bathroom cabinet. You really should be more careful with your things."
That evening, as I prepared for bed, I heard music drifting up from downstairs—Anastasia's favorite song playing loudly through the sound system.
"Jason?" I called out, but he was working late again.
Maisie passed by our bedroom door, humming along to the music.
"Sleep well, Isabella," she called cheerfully. "I thought we could all use some ambiance."
---
The dinner party was Jason's idea—a way to "strengthen business relationships," he'd said. I wore my white Valentino dress, one of the few expensive items Maisie hadn't yet found a way to damage.
Our dining room glittered with candlelight as Jason's associates and their wives filled the table with laughter and conversation. Maisie sat at Jason's right hand, wearing black—"to honor Anastasia," she'd explained to our guests.
I was midway through describing my thoughts on the new exhibition at the Met when Maisie stood suddenly, reaching for the wine bottle.
"Let me refill everyone's glasses," she offered sweetly.
As she leaned across me, her hand "slipped." Red wine cascaded down the front of my white dress.
"Oh my God!" she gasped, her eyes wide with mock horror. "Isabella, I'm so sorry! Are you alright?"
The cold liquid seeped through the expensive fabric, staining it beyond salvation.
"I think you've had enough to drink already," she added loudly, her voice carrying across the suddenly silent table. "Maybe you should slow down a bit."
Titters rippled around the table. I looked to Jason, waiting for him to defend me.
He cleared his throat. "Maisie, please get Isabella a towel."
That was all. No defense. No acknowledgment of what had really happened.
As I dabbed uselessly at the stain with the towel Maisie reluctantly provided, I caught her eyes across the table. Behind her mask of concern, I saw something else entirely.
Satisfaction.
And in that moment, watching my husband fail to protect me yet again, I made my decision.