Chapter 2

It began quietly, with a request for mangoes at midnight.

I’d just managed to drift off in the guest room, the sheets prickling against my skin, when Rebecca’s voice rang through the intercom. “Erica. I’m craving mangoes. Not the store kind—get the honey mangoes, the yellow ones. Now.”

I hesitated, staring up at the darkness. The clock glowed 12:13 AM. For a moment, I considered refusing, just to see what would happen, but the silence that followed was thick with expectation—hers, Damien’s, the house itself. I rose, wrapped a shawl over my shoulders, and made my way downstairs.

The kitchen lights were harsh, casting my reflection onto the glossy cabinets—my hair tangled, eyes hollow, a ghost haunting her own home. The cook eyed me warily as I rifled through the fridge. “Sorry to wake you,” I murmured. He shrugged, sympathy flickering in his eyes before vanishing behind practiced indifference. The only mangoes were green and hard. I set them on a tray with a note: ‘Sorry, no honey mangoes available at this hour. I’ll get them in the morning.’

Rebecca didn’t eat a bite. At breakfast, she wrinkled her nose at the eggs I’d prepared, sending the plate away untouched. “Poached, not scrambled, Erica. Are you even trying?”

The days blurred together in a cycle of demands and subtle humiliations. She requested foot massages while chatting on the phone, toes tapping impatiently against my thigh. She called for hot towels, a specific herbal tea no one could pronounce, and at one point, insisted I fetch a silk nightgown she’d left in Damien’s room—his shirt draped carelessly over her shoulders as I entered. Her eyes met mine, cool and amused, daring me to object.

Each time, I obeyed. I learned to keep my face blank, to let her barbs slide off like rain on glass. But inside, a slow, simmering ache was building—shame curdling into something denser, heavier.

It all came to a head on a Thursday night, when the Vance mansion hosted a dinner party for Damien’s business associates. The house was awash in gold candlelight and the scent of roasting lamb. I wore a simple navy dress, careful to keep to the edges of the room, quietly overseeing the waitstaff and making sure Rebecca’s many needs were anticipated.

Halfway through the evening, Damien called for everyone’s attention, raising his glass. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate Rebecca and our growing family.”

Rebecca, radiant in a silver gown that clung to her new curves, sidled up beside him. Her hand rested on his arm, the gesture proprietary. “We’re so grateful for your support. And of course, we couldn’t do it without the help here.” She waved a manicured hand in my direction. “Erica, do you mind topping up the wine?”

Laughter rippled around the table. Some guests glanced away, embarrassed; others smirked, eyes bright with curiosity. My cheeks burned. I stepped forward, careful not to let the bottle shake in my hand. Rebecca’s smile widened, triumphant.

Afterwards, as guests mingled over dessert, Mark Conroy—a junior executive always eager for Damien’s approval—cornered me by the sideboard. “You really have a gift, Mrs. Vance. So dignified, even when you’re…what is it now? Chief servant?”

He grinned, expecting complicity. I stared past him, heart pounding, and excused myself. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped a tray. Rebecca watched from across the room, eyes glittering with delight.

The next morning, Rebecca summoned me to her suite. Her voice was syrupy-sweet. “Erica, these are the wrong prenatal vitamins. Didn’t I say the ones with the blue label? You know how important this is for the baby.”

She held out the bottle, her expression innocent, but her voice carried easily through the open door—loud enough for Damien, who was shaving in the bathroom, to hear.

I swallowed, forcing calm. “These are the ones the doctor prescribed, Rebecca.”

Her tone sharpened. “Well, they aren’t what I asked for. Damien!”

He emerged, razor in hand, eyes already narrowed. “What’s going on?”

Rebecca pressed a hand to her belly, lips trembling. “Erica brought me the wrong vitamins. She knows the others make me sick. I—I’m worried she’s trying to harm the baby.”

The accusation hung in the air, poisonous. My pulse hammered in my ears. “That’s not true,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

Damien’s face contorted, rage boiling to the surface. He advanced, crowding the space between us. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, Erica. First you can’t give me a child, now you’re sabotaging my heir?”

Rebecca buried her face in her hands, soft sobs escaping her. Damien’s voice rose, echoing down the marble hall. “You’re dangerous. I’m done pretending you belong here.”

He stormed out, returning moments later with an armful of my clothes from the wardrobe. He flung them into the hallway, silk and wool landing in a tangled, humiliating heap. The staff gathered at the edges of the scene, eyes wide.

“You’re out,” Damien spat. “If you can’t respect the new order, you’re leaving tonight.”

Thunder rattled the windows as rain began to lash the glass. I scrambled to gather my belongings, numb and shaking. The humiliation was total, public, irrevocable.

Behind me, Jenna Fields—a housemaid I’d barely registered before—hovered with her phone, the screen’s blue glow reflecting off her face. I barely noticed her at first, too consumed by the chaos, but as I struggled to zip my suitcase, a sharp click and the flash of a camera cut through the murmur of voices.

Jenna’s eyes gleamed with malice and anticipation. She filmed as I stumbled outside, suitcase bumping over the stone steps, hair plastered to my cheeks by the rain. Damien’s voice carried through the open doorway: “Let this be a lesson—no one crosses the Vance family.”

The staff watched from the warmth of the foyer, their faces a mixture of pity and schadenfreude. Rebecca appeared at Damien’s shoulder, a picture of concern, but her lips quirked in satisfaction as she closed the door behind them.

The rain was cold, soaking through my coat within seconds. My hands fumbled with the suitcase handle, knuckles white and trembling. Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the driveway, the manicured lawns, the high iron gates that now felt like bars of a prison I’d finally been expelled from.

Somewhere behind me, Jenna’s laughter rang out, gleeful and cruel. I turned, just in time to see her upload the video, her fingers dancing across the screen. The caption flashed briefly in the glow of her phone: ‘Rich wife gets what she deserves.’

The gate clanged shut.

I stood alone in the storm, rain washing the last traces of the Vance home from my skin. Shame burned in my chest, sharper than the cold. But beneath it all, a brittle defiance stirred—a warning flicker, like the first crackle of a match.

Let them watch. Let them laugh. The world had seen my humiliation. But they hadn’t seen the end.