Dylan Butler

My husband, Liam, asked me to move out of the master bedroom. He wanted to make room for his childhood sweetheart—who also happens to be his cousin, Isabelle—just back from Europe. “It’s only temporary,” he said. “Once she’s emotionally stable, everything will go back to normal.” I smiled and agreed. He thought I was still the perfect wife, the one who would endure anything for the family’s reputation. What he didn’t know was that when I returned to my room and opened my laptop, it wasn’t to pack. It was to create a file named “Liberation Plan.” The moment he nodded, he signed off on the liquidation of his entire family. *** “Ava, I need you to move out for now.” Liam walked into the house as he spoke, loosening his tie without a single glance in my direction. His voice was light, as if he were discussing the weather. “Isabelle gets agitated when she sees you. I’m bringing her home so I can look after her.” I took the suit jacket he shrugged off. The familiar scent of cedar was threaded with a faint trace of Grasse white orchid—a fragrance that was expensive, and decidedly not mine. It was the perfume Isabelle had always worn. “And what if she’s never stable?” I tightened my grip on the costly fabric, my voice low. “Are you going to keep up this charade forever?” Liam stopped. At last, he turned to look at me. He sighed, a sound I knew all too well. It was the soothing, tolerant sigh he used when handling an unruly subordinate. “Ava, think of the bigger picture. She’s family. She’s in a terrible state right now.” He walked toward the living room, keeping his distance, then raised a hand and pointed to the huge, mottled modern painting on the wall. “Get rid of this, too. Isabelle doesn’t like this style.” He paused, then added, “Besides, it’s been up long enough. It’s time to bring out the family collection again.” It was the first anniversary gift he’d ever given me. For five years, I had personally wiped the frame clean every single week. So, in his eyes, it was long past time for a change. Or maybe it wasn’t just the painting he wanted to replace. I didn’t answer. I simply gave the butler a look. Soon, the painting was taken down, revealing a blank patch of wall like a glaring scar. Before I could even process the emptiness, the family’s preferred interior designer arrived with a team. Liam gave instructions, his memory for every detail flawless. I’d only ever seen that kind of focus from him when he was discussing oil contracts worth hundreds of millions. “Replace all the curtains with French classical velvet. Full blackout.” “Upholster the walls in a warm-toned fabric and hang the heavy oils.” “And…” He paused, then walked straight to the household information board. I stood rooted to the spot and watched him tear down the reminders I had placed there with my own hands, one by one. “Prescott Energy Fund, investment meeting next Wednesday.” Torn down. “Annual charity gala, final confirmation of guest list.” Torn down. “Liam, gastroscopy follow-up at three p.m., fasting required.” Torn down. He tossed the crumpled scraps into the trash, then looked up at me with a slight frown. “Good, you’re still here. I need you to clear out all your things. Don’t leave anything behind.” “I don’t want Isabelle seeing all this complicated stuff.” Then he walked out, as if he had merely cleared away a few expired documents. Soon, several workers carried in a brand-new French velvet sofa, their voices low as they talked. “Mr. Prescott is so good to his cousin. He’s redecorating the whole estate to her tastes.” “I know. Even the central fragrance system is being changed. Something she used in Europe… rare white orchid, I think.” White orchid. I stood in the foyer and watched the home I had lived in for five years become another woman’s house, piece by piece, in a matter of hours. It wasn’t that Liam had no energy. ......