His Unwanted Trash, The Rival's Treasured Queen

Ember Vane POV I returned to the penthouse the next morning. The locks hadn't been changed, but the air inside had shifted. It felt heavy. Occupied. There were suitcases dominating the hallway. Louis Vuitton trunks, each stamped with gold initials: E.R. Estelle Russo. I walked into the living room. Julian was standing by the window, his back to me as he spoke low into his phone. Estelle was perched on the sofa-my sofa-wrapped in one of my cashmere blankets, holding a steaming mug of tea. She looked up when I entered. She smiled. It wasn't a welcoming expression. It was the satisfied curve of a predator who had just swallowed the canary. Julian hung up the phone. "You're back," he said, his tone devoid of warmth. "Why is she here?" I asked, my voice flat. "Her apartment isn't safe," Julian replied, slipping his phone into his pocket. "The gas leak is worse than they thought. And after the... incident at the Gala, her father is worried about threats." "Threats from who?" I asked. "Me?" "You were very aggressive, Ember," Estelle said softly, feigning a flinch. "My cheek is still bruising." I looked at her flawless face. There wasn't a blemish on it. Her skin was porcelain perfection. "I'm packing," I said. "Good," Julian said, misunderstanding me entirely. "We're moving you to the guest room." I stopped dead. "Excuse me?" "Estelle needs the master suite," Julian said, refusing to meet my eyes. "It has the panic room attached. It's for security." "You want me to sleep in the guest room," I repeated, letting the absurdity hang in the air. "In my own home. While she sleeps in our bed?" "It's temporary," Julian snapped, irritated. "Stop being so territorial. It's unbecoming." He pointed a finger at me. "And stop leaking stories to the press." "What?" "The tabloids are running a story about a 'mystery lovers quarrel' at the Gala. You're the only one who gains from that narrative." He thought I leaked it. He thought I was playing petty media games, while I was literally bleeding beneath my sweater. "I didn't leak anything," I said. "Just move your stuff," he dismissed, turning his back on me to face Estelle. "Do you want some pasta? I can make that carbonara you like." I froze. Julian didn't cook. In four years, he had never lifted a pan. He had sworn to me that his hands were too valuable, too ravaged by the crash to grip a skillet. "I'd love that," Estelle cooed. I watched, paralyzed, as Julian walked into the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and started boiling water. He diced pancetta with the steady precision of a surgeon. He laughed at something Estelle whispered. It was a domestic scene. Intimate. Warm. Exclusively theirs. I was just the ghost haunting the hallway. I turned and walked into the master bedroom. I didn't move my things to the guest room. I took my suitcases and started filling them with everything I owned. My clothes. My books. My art supplies. I worked in silence, systematically erasing myself from the room. When I was done, the shelves were bare. The closet was half empty. I zipped up the bags and lined them up by the door. I wasn't moving to the guest room. I was moving out. But not yet. I needed to wait for the right moment. The wedding was in two weeks. That was the deadline. I walked out to the kitchen. Julian was plating the pasta. The rich scent of garlic and cheese filled the air. It smelled like a home I never truly had. "Dinner's ready," Julian said, glancing at me. "There's enough for three." "I'm not hungry," I said. "Sit down," he ordered. "We need to present a united front. The staff is watching." I sat. But I didn't eat. I watched them. I watched Julian wipe a smudge of sauce from Estelle's lip with his thumb. I watched the way he looked at her-with a hunger that had nothing to do with the food. I was invisible. And for the first time in four years, being invisible felt like a superpower. It meant they wouldn't see me coming when I finally left.