Chapter 2

The blue light of the television cast ghostly shadows across our living room as I curled deeper into the couch, pulling the cashmere throw tighter around my shoulders. The clock on the mantle ticked past eleven—time for 'The Tonight Show with Ben Carter.' My stomach clenched as I turned up the volume, knowing what was coming but unable to look away.

The audience erupted in applause as Ben Carter bounded onto the stage, his trademark grin flashing under the studio lights.

"Tonight, we have a very special guest," he announced, gesturing dramatically toward the wings. "America's sweetheart trying to rebuild her life after that...unfortunate incident. Please welcome Scarlett Rose and her new boyfriend, renowned psychiatrist Dr. Michael Harrison!"

My husband—still legally my husband—walked onto the stage hand-in-hand with Scarlett. She wore a crimson dress that clung to her body like a second skin, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders. Michael's hand rested possessively on the small of her back, guiding her to the couch. I recognized the gesture. He used to guide me the same way.

"So, Michael," Ben leaned forward conspiratorially, "this is quite the romance. Patient falls for doctor?"

Michael laughed, the sound achingly familiar yet somehow foreign. "Former patient," he corrected, his voice carrying that authoritative tone he used when making an important clinical distinction. "Ethics are paramount in my profession."

Scarlett placed her hand on his thigh, her red nails stark against his dark suit. "Michael saved me," she said, her voice breathy with practiced vulnerability. "After the...incident, I was lost. He helped me find myself again."

The audience sighed collectively. I pressed my grandmother's necklace between my fingers, its edges digging into my palm.

"And what about your personal assistant?" Ben asked suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "The mysterious woman who's always hovering in the background of your charity events?"

My blood froze. On screen, an unflattering paparazzi photo of me appeared—head down, half-hidden behind Michael at a hospital fundraiser last month.

"Lily?" Michael laughed, the sound casual and dismissive. "She's been with me for years. Brilliant organizer. Couldn't function without her, professionally speaking."

The audience chuckled. I was the punchline to a joke I hadn't agreed to be part of.

"She's absolutely wonderful," Scarlett added, her smile tight. "So... quiet. Always there when you need something, then vanishes like a ghost."

Another laugh from the audience. I couldn't breathe. Ghost. That's what I'd become—transparent, invisible, haunting the edges of my own life.

The interview continued, but their voices faded to a distant hum as I watched Michael's hand caress Scarlett's arm, the same gentle touch he'd once reserved for me. The studio lights caught his wedding ring—gone. The bare finger gleamed accusingly under the spotlight.

I don't know how long I sat there, paralyzed, before I heard the garage door open. Quickly, I switched off the television and moved to the kitchen. By the time Michael walked in, I was arranging his dinner on a plate—salmon with dill sauce, asparagus, wild rice. His favorite.

"Lily," he said, setting his keys in the crystal dish by the door. His voice carried the slight hoarseness it always had after interviews. "You didn't have to wait up."

I gestured to the plate, my throat constricting as it always did when I tried to speak to anyone but him. Even now, after everything, my voice remained his prisoner.

"Thank you," he said, approaching to place a perfunctory kiss on my cheek. Scarlett's perfume clung to him, sweet and cloying. "The interview went well. Scarlett was magnificent—so authentic. The public is already warming to her."

I nodded, my fingers finding my necklace again.

"I need to call her," he continued, already turning toward the stairs. "She gets anxious after public appearances. Needs reassurance."

He took the plate with him, leaving me alone in the kitchen, the ghost of his kiss cooling on my skin. Upstairs, I heard his study door close, followed by the low murmur of his voice—that intimate tone once reserved for me.

I sank to the kitchen floor, my back against the cold refrigerator door. The salmon had taken three hours to prepare. He hadn't even tasted it.

Morning came with harsh clarity. I sorted through the daily newspapers as I always did, preparing Michael's media briefing. The headline of the entertainment section froze me in place:

"SCARLETT ROSE ANNOUNCES MEMOIR: 'RISING FROM ASHES' TO CHRONICLE RECOVERY AND NEW LOVE"

Beneath it, a sample passage was printed in bold:

"The lighthouse by the sea flashes every ten seconds. I count each flash, marking the rhythm of my heartbeat as I learn to trust again..."

My words. My secret manuscript. The novel I'd been writing as L.M. Chen—words I'd never shown anyone except Clara, my agent.

Scarlett hadn't just taken my husband.

She was stealing my voice, too.