Done Being A Shadow: The Wife's Escape

Olivia POV My father’s house was a fortress of silence. For two weeks, I existed within its walls, lying in the guest bedroom and staring at the pristine white ceiling. The burns on my arm were healing, knitting themselves into jagged, pink maps of pain. My father, David, hired a private nurse. He wanted to hover, to fix what had been broken, but I wouldn't let him. I didn't want soup. I didn't want comfort. I wanted to be numb. Every morning, a delivery truck arrived. Roses. Lilies. Orchids. Marcus sent them. They filled the hallway downstairs, turning the air cloying and sweet, suffocating the house like a funeral parlor. He never came inside. He dropped off the extravagant arrangements like penance, and then drove straight to the hospital. To be with Izzy. I sat by the window, a statue in my own life, and watched his car retreat. "He called again," my father said, standing in the doorway. He looked older, his features etched with a new, weary grey. "He wants to know when you're coming home." "I am home," I said. But I wasn't. My things were still at the mansion. My paints. My clothes. The last shreds of my dignity. I waited until the calendar on my phone confirmed Marcus was trapped in a board meeting. Then, I drove back to the house we used to share. It was quiet. The staff made themselves scarce, ghosts in the periphery. I walked up the stairs, my footsteps echoing on the cold marble. I didn't go to our bedroom. I went to the guest wing to pack the rest of my art supplies. The door to Marcus’s study was ajar. I heard the crackle of a fire. It was mid-July. The central air conditioning was humming, battling a heat that shouldn't have been there. I stopped. Through the sliver of space between the door and the frame, I saw her. Izzy. She was out of the hospital, standing in front of the fireplace. She held a stack of photographs. Her hands were shaking so violently the images blurred. She looked at one. It was a polaroid. I couldn't see the faces, but I saw the way she caressed the glossy paper. She brought it to her lips, kissed it, and then ripped it in half. She threw the pieces into the flames. "Goodbye," she whispered. Her voice was thick with tears. "I have to let you go." She reached for another. Rip. Burn. Rip. Burn. It was a ritual. A violent purging. Then, the front door slammed downstairs. Heavy footsteps took the stairs two at a time. Marcus. He burst into the study. I pressed myself against the wall, holding my breath, rendering myself invisible. "What are you doing?" Marcus roared. He rushed forward, grabbing Izzy’s wrist. He looked at the fire, at the curling edges of the photos. His face went pale. "These are us," he said, his voice trembling. "Milan. The lake house. Why are you burning them?" "Because it hurts!" Izzy screamed. She shoved him away. "I can't look at them anymore, Marcus! I can't look at you playing house with her!" "I am not playing house," Marcus said. "I am doing what is necessary." "Are you?" Izzy challenged. "You bought her that dress. The blue one. The one I wore the night we met." "I bought it because it reminded me of you," Marcus said. "Everything reminds me of you." He stepped closer, backing her against the desk. The heat coming off him was palpable. It wasn't anger. It was desperation. "I would give it all up," Marcus said, his voice raw. "The company. The reputation. The marriage. If you just said the word, Izzy, I would burn it all down for you." Izzy stared at him. Then she ran. She pushed past him and fled the room, sobbing. I stood in the hallway, a ghost haunting my own marriage. Marcus didn't chase her. He turned to the fireplace. He fell to his knees. He didn't care about the soot or the heat. He reached into the flames with his bare hands. He pulled out a half-burnt scrap of a photo. He batted out the embers, scorching his own skin, desperate to save a picture of her smile. He cradled the charred paper against his chest and curled into a ball. I walked away. I didn't feel sick anymore. I didn't feel sad. I felt nothing. And that was the most dangerous feeling of all.