Chapter 2

I went to my studio the next morning because it was the only room in that house that was mine. Damian built it for me the year we married — north light, twelve-foot ceilings, every canvas I'd ever painted for him hanging on the walls. In the center: the two of us, mid-laugh, in the rain in Positano. It used to make my chest ache with happiness. Now it just looked like evidence. Celeste was standing under it with a lighter in her hand. "God, these are hideous." Click. The flame jumped. "Amateur hour. Honestly, Ivy, it's embarrassing for you." She wanted screaming. She wanted claws. I felt nothing but a cold, clinical disgust — three years of the two of them lying to my face, and this woman thought a lighter was the worst thing she'd done to me. My silence enraged her. She raised her hand to slap me— Then footsteps sounded in the hall. Her whole face changed. She dropped the flame to the hem of her own silk dress and threw herself onto the floor. "AH! It's burning — help me — Dame!" He came through the door like a bullet, smothered the flames with his jacket, dragged her into his arms. She clutched his shirt and sobbed beautifully. "Don't be angry with Ivy, please. I'm sure she just — misunderstood something. I'm barely hurt. Please don't fight because of me." Damian looked at the scorch mark on her thigh, and something in his face went black. He took the lighter out of her hand and set fire to the rest of my paintings. Four years of work. The Positano canvas caught first. The rain, the laughing, the two of us — gone in about nine seconds. I took one step forward. Then I stopped. Let it burn. It was already a lie. Celeste was still crying prettily. "Dame, I was so scared. The flames nearly got my chest—" She pressed herself against his arm while she said it, and I watched my husband's eyes drop to her cleavage and go hot. Then he turned to me, and there was nothing in them but rage. He grabbed my wrist and hauled me into the wine cellar next door. No windows. No lights. "Damian. Damian, no—" He knew. He knew. I've been claustrophobic since I was eight years old and my stepmother locked me in a closet for a weekend. Our whole house ran on nightlights. He used to leave the bathroom lamp on so I'd never wake in the dark. I dropped to the floor, already shaking. "Please. Please, not this. Anything else." He looked down at me and frowned like I was a spreadsheet error. "Consider it a small correction. You hurt Celeste. I'll let you out when she's calmed down." "DON'T—" He hesitated. One second. Maybe two. Then the door closed and the lock turned. I curled up on the concrete with my hands over my ears, counting my breaths, and that's when I heard it. Her laugh. The wet sounds. The rhythmic thud of the cellar door in its frame. They were doing it right outside. Against the door I was locked behind. It went on for hours. I didn't cry. I lay in the dark with my eyes open until the tears simply stopped coming, and something inside me quietly finished dying. A housekeeper let me out at noon the next day. Celeste was waiting in the hall in one of my robes, hickeys blooming purple down her throat, arms folded so her chest pushed forward. "Don't get comfortable just because you're the one with his last name." She looked at my body and laughed. "You will never measure up to me. Not in this lifetime. You heard us, didn't you? All night. He couldn't stop." I got to my feet. Then I slapped her. Twice. Hard enough that my palm went numb. She shrieked and ran straight into Damian's chest as he rounded the corner. He opened his mouth to roar at me. I got there first. "I want a divorce, Damian Vance." He froze. Actually froze, like the floor had dropped. Something flickered across his face — panic, raw and unfamiliar — and his hand shot out for mine. "Ivy. Stop. The gala's in three weeks, the merger's in four. Don't say insane things." Celeste started weeping into his shirt. "My face hurts so much. She hit my chest too, Dame — can you check it? Please?" And he did. Right in front of me, my husband tipped her chin down and examined her breasts. She smiled at me over his shoulder while she sobbed. "I know you're only doing this to get his attention, Ivy. But don't worry. I love Dame, but if you hate me this much — I'll just leave. Forever." She turned toward the door. Damian's whole body jerked. He rounded on me, teeth bared. "If this is some manipulative little game to get me to look at you, Ivy, you'd better stop." I stood there, dazed, watching him pull her back into his arms. I didn't see the burning easel until it came down on me.