The morning sun filters through the stained-glass windows of the Marell dining room, casting red and gold shadows over the untouched food on my plate. The eggs are soft, the tea hot, the fruit glistening, and I can’t taste a thing. I sit across from Lady Isolde, who hums softly as she sips her tea, like she didn’t watch me get gutted in front of hundreds of people last night. Her movements are elegant, precise, practiced. She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her satisfaction radiating like heat from the fireplace behind her.
I stare at the tablecloth, counting the embroidered fleur-de-lis along the hem. One. Two. Fourteen. My fingers twitch in my lap. I want to throw my teacup across the room. I want to scream. But all I say is, “Just say it.”
Isolde pauses mid-sip. Her eyes flick toward me, amused. “Say what, darling?” I lift my chin.
My voice doesn’t shake. “You’ve hated me since day one.”
She exhales, not a sigh—more like a well-bred smirk in sound form. “Don’t be dramatic, Ella. I simply recognized from the beginning that you didn’t… fit.”
Footsteps echo down the hall. Dorian enters, hair damp, cufflinks glinting, tie already perfect. He picks up the paper without greeting either of us. I look at him. He doesn’t look at me. Not until I push my chair back, the scrape deliberate.
“Dorian,” I say, evenly. “Did you know she was going to say that?” He doesn’t even blink. “You were never supposed to stay.”
My stomach drops, but I don’t let it show. I nod once, slowly. My limbs feel heavy, like every muscle is pulling away from him before I can. I don’t say another word. I walk out of the dining room with my shoulders square and my spine straight.
No one stops me. The halls feel colder than usual. I pass two maids whispering near the stairwell. They go quiet when they see me. I walk up to the guest room—mine, though no one ever said it aloud—and open the closet. The few dresses I brought five years ago still hang like ghosts of a woman I no longer am. I take them down, one by one, folding them gently. My hands don’t shake.
A knock comes later, soft and formal. A servant hands me a sealed envelope, Marell crest in red wax. I know who it’s from before I open it. Isolde’s handwriting is immaculate.
Effective immediately, your monthly stipend will cease. Your services are no longer required. You are, as ever, a piece of excess baggage we are grateful to be rid of.
No signature. Just the seal.
I sit for a moment, letting the cruelty soak into my skin. Then I fold the letter twice, press it flat, and slide it into my suitcase on top of the last dress. I zip the case shut.
The sound of that line—“Your services are no longer required”—rings in my ears even as I climb the stairs. I repeat it in my head like a mantra, like if I say it enough, it will numb the sting. I think of every dinner I sat through in silence, every party where I stood in the background, every time I tried to be good enough. It was never going to matter. I was never meant to belong.
I open the top drawer of my vanity and find the little silver hairpin I wore the first night I arrived here. I almost laugh. I thought it was elegant. Isolde had looked at it like it was a joke. I hold it in my hand now, then set it aside. There’s no space left for nostalgia. I won’t carry weight that was never mine.
A gentle knock sounds again—this time it’s Marla, the oldest maid, the only one who ever looked me in the eye. “Do you need help, miss?”
“No,” I say, softly but firmly. “Thank you.”
She hesitates, then nods and steps back. I know she won’t tell anyone I’m leaving. I know she won’t ask why. She already knows.
Back in the closet, I slide my coat from its hanger. It’s plain, like everything else I own, but warm. It still smells faintly like cedar from the trunk I kept it in.
As I walk toward Dorian’s study, each step feels quieter than it should. The hallway muffles my movement like it’s bracing for a confrontation. But there’s no fire left in me. Only ash and truth.
Dorian doesn’t look up when I enter. Of course he doesn’t. His focus is fixed on some legal document, a perfect distraction from the damage he’s caused. I wonder if Renia’s laugh echoes in his ears the way mine used to when I still believed he might love me.
I want to shout, to demand answers, but instead, I do something stronger. I place the ring on his desk with the kind of care I once hoped he’d give me. The sound it makes is soft but undeniable.
He still doesn’t look. “I hope she’s worth the price,” I whisper.
There is no emotion on his face whatsoever. He flips the page. “She is,” he says, flatly.
The breath leaves my lungs.
“Renia isn’t weak,” he adds, without even glancing at me. “She doesn’t cry over things she can’t control.”
I laugh—broken, bitter. “And what exactly was I supposed to control, Dorian? Your fidelity? Your attention? Your mother’s cruelty?”
“Your expectations,” he says simply. “You married a Marell. Not a fairytale.”
I stare at him, but he’s already returned to his papers, signing his name like this conversation is just another transaction. Like I’m just another thing he’s discarded.
“She makes things easier.” Dorian continues.
I blink. “Easier?”
“I don’t have to pretend with her.” He leans back in his chair. “I never loved you. I thought I could. I wanted to. But I didn’t.”
My body goes still. Cold rushes in.
He continues, like it’s nothing. “Can I finally be happy now? Without being the villain in your story?”
“You already are,” I whisper. “You always were.”
He doesn't even have the courage to look me in the eye. And that’s what breaks me.
I take the pen without another word, because if I stay there a moment longer, I’ll beg. And I promised myself I wouldn’t.
I’ll give him what he wants.