(Elise's POV)

I didn't go to the living room when I got back to the estate.

I went to Rosalind's room.

Three days. I hadn't seen her in three days, and I needed something - just a trace of her, the smell of her shampoo on the pillow, a drawing left on the desk. Anything.

The pink smart speaker on her nightstand caught my eye. I'd bought it for her six months ago. We had a ritual: every night before bed, Rosalind would record a goodnight message and leave it for me to play in the morning. It was the one thing that had felt like ours.

Out of habit, I pressed play.

What came out wasn't a goodnight message.

It was a recording from a hotel room in Aspen. Rosalind's children's watch had been paired with the speaker as an intercom, and somewhere along the way, she'd left the two-way audio running. The whole conversation had synced back here and saved itself.

Rosalind's voice was bright and easy: "Daddy, I like Mama Camille more. She actually knows things - she taught me how to wax my own skis today! Mom doesn't even know I started skiing."

Damien laughed. That loose, unguarded laugh I hadn't heard directed at me in years. "Yeah? What else does she know?"

"She lets me have whipped cream on pancakes! Mom only lets me have one piece of candy a day, and she always checks. Camille says it's just sugar, who cares."

"Your mom worries too much. Always has."

A pause. Then Rosalind's voice again, smaller this time, almost hopeful: "Daddy, can Mama Camille come live with us when we get back?"

Silence on the recording. Several seconds of it.

Then Damien, low and certain: "Soon, sweetie. Just a little more time."

I stopped the playback.

I turned the speaker over and scanned the setup code on the bottom. The configuration screen loaded. I needed to know when this was recorded. I needed to know everything.

Under Shared Family Playlist, I found four linked accounts.

Camille's. Damien's. Rosalind's.

Not mine.

I scrolled down to the creation date. One month ago. Exactly one month after Adam - Damien's older brother, Camille's husband - had been buried.

My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone. It took her only a month to win over my daughter's heart. She easily gained her trust simply because she was more indulgent with Rosie. And what about me? What does it count for that I've been carefully caring for her since birth?

I set the phone down on Rosalind's desk and walked out.

The door to the master bedroom was open as I passed. I stopped in the doorway.

Three days. I had been gone three days.

Camille's skincare line was arranged on my vanity - the same brand she'd gifted Margaret at Christmas, the one she'd made a point of mentioning the price. My clothes had been pushed to the sides of the walk-in closet to make room for several pieces in Camille's size, tags still on. The novel I'd been reading for weeks had been moved off the nightstand and placed on the floor. In its place sat Camille's book.

I was standing in the doorway of my own bedroom.

Margaret's voice came from down the corridor. "Camille found the guest room too cramped. She needed space to change after Aspen, coming and going. I had the housekeeper clear the window side of the closet for her temporary use." She paused. "You weren't here. I didn't know when you'd be back. She'll move back to the guest room tonight."

She didn't ask where I'd been. She didn't ask why I was moving so carefully, why I was holding my coat closed over my abdomen, why I looked like someone who had spent three days in a hospital bed.

Then she was gone.

Damien came home that evening.

I heard him at the front door - the particular sound of his keys, his coat being handed off to the housekeeper. I was standing in the entryway. He walked past me without seeing me, eyes on his phone.

"Damien."

He looked up. A half-second of blankness crossed his face, like he was placing me. "Oh. You're back?"

Like I was someone who occasionally passed through.

He started up the stairs. Halfway up, he stopped and turned back to the housekeeper. "There's a Moncler in Camille's luggage - wash it separately, she's sensitive to detergent. And Rosalind left her new ski boots at the hotel. Call them, have it shipped back, charge it to my card, not the household account."

He kept walking.

He never looked at me again.

"Damien." My voice came out flat. "Don't you want to ask anything?"

He stopped on the stairs. Turned. "Ask what?"

"The checkup. Three days ago."

He thought about it. I watched him actually think about it, searching for what I meant. Then his expression shifted into something like recognition. "It was just a routine checkup, right? It's done?"

"The baby is gone," I said. "Because you weren't there."

His face tightened. "What are you talking about? Stop being hysterical." He came down two steps. "You always do this. Dramatic, irrational, emotional. No wonder Rosalind doesn't want to be around you. Look at yourself."

I looked at him instead. Really looked - maybe for the first time in years. This man I had loved since university. The man I had handed my career to, my friends, my entire self. He was looking at me the way you look at a problem that won't resolve itself.

"Is that right?" I said. "Rosalind only likes Mama Camille? The woman who had already planned to marry her husband's brother after that funeral?"

The color drained from his face. He stepped toward me, voice dropping to something quiet and sharp. "How dare you. Camille just lost her husband. She's grieving. She's fragile. You're jealous of a widow? Elise, you're cold. You have no heart. I can't believe I married someone this cruel."

He turned toward the dining room. At the door, he looked back. "Think about what you said. Fix your attitude before Rosalind sees you like this."

The door shut.

The sound traveled through the whole empty house.

One tear slid down my cheek. Then another. I wiped them off roughly.

I was done crying for this man. Done begging for scraps of attention. Done pretending this marriage was anything other than a cage I had built around myself and called love.

I walked back to the master bedroom. I took Camille's skincare bottles off my vanity one by one and dropped them in the bin by the door. I pulled her untagged clothes off the hangers in the closet and set them in the hallway. I moved my own clothes back to the center. I picked my novel up off the floor and put it back on the nightstand where it belonged.

My phone was in my hand before I'd made a conscious decision. I found Olivia's name and called.

She picked up on the second ring. "Ellie? What's wrong? You sound -"

"Livvy." My voice shook, but my mind was the clearest it had been in years. "Do you know any good divorce lawyers?"