Chapter 2

Three years.

Three years of eating breakfast alone at this massive marble dining table every morning at seven sharp.

The Blackstone mansion sits on one of Manhattan's most exclusive blocks—Italian marble everywhere, crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most people's houses, and furniture so pristine it looks like no one's ever actually lived here. Beautiful and cold as a mausoleum.

I was scanning The Wall Street Journal for any mention of Dad's research when familiar laughter echoed down the stairs.

"Ethan, you spoil me," Isabella's voice was sugar-sweet. "Having Chef make my porridge from scratch... but you need to eat something too. You were up so late working..."

They walked past me like I was part of the furniture.

Ethan looked sharp in his navy Tom Ford suit while Isabella hung on his arm in a white silk robe that made her look like a fragile angel. Her "heart condition" hadn't changed in three years—always just sick enough to need constant attention, never sick enough to actually be in real danger.

"Mrs. Blackstone, shall I give Mr. Blackstone any message?" Henry, our butler, asked quietly.

Henry's been with the family for forty years. At seventy-something, he's seen it all. Sometimes I think he's the only person in this house who remembers I actually live here.

"Don't bother, Henry," I shook my head. "He's busy."

Henry looked like he wanted to say something but just sighed instead.

This is my life. Fifty million dollars worth of real estate, and I feel like a squatter. Unlimited credit cards and no one to spend time with. I'm supposedly one of New York's youngest society wives, but I've never felt more invisible.

Around ten, I was reading in the garden when I watched Sarah, one of the maids, nervously carrying tea toward Isabella's room.

"Sarah, remember what I told you?" Isabella's voice carried through her open doors. "Ethan specifically said I can't handle any stress right now."

She paused, then continued just loud enough for me to hear: "I know some people might not want me here, but Ethan says my health comes first. After all..." she laughed softly, "not everyone understands our connection."

Sarah shot me an uncomfortable look before hurrying away.

I closed my book and counted to ten.

My phone buzzed.

"Dad" lit up the screen, and for the first time all day, I smiled.

"Hey princess, how's your morning?" Dad sounded tired but warm.

I closed my eyes, soaking up the only genuine affection in my life. "Good, Dad. How's the lab treating you?"

"Can't complain." He hesitated. "Sophia, I need to ask you something. Are you really okay there? Because if you're not, you can come home. Today, if you want."

My throat tightened. In three years, Dad was the only person who still cared if I was happy.

"I'm fine, really," I made my voice light. "This is my life now. Don't worry about me—focus on your work."

"My brilliant girl..." his voice cracked. "I'm so sorry for all of this."

"Dad, don't," I wiped my eyes. "I love you."

After we hung up, I sat there thinking about what real love felt like, and how long it had been since I'd felt it from anyone else.

That evening was the annual Plaza Hotel charity gala. These events are blood sport for society wives—everyone competing to wear the most expensive dress and the biggest diamonds.

"Sophia, darling," Margaret Ashford glided over. The oil heiress was basically the queen bee of Manhattan's mean girls.

"Hi, Margaret."

"You look lovely," she smiled like a shark. "Though I have to say, your husband and his little 'sister' are just adorable together. Such a close family bond."

The other wives smelled drama and moved in for the kill.

"Isabella's so lucky," another woman said with fake concern. "Having such a devoted 'brother' to take care of her."

"We all admire their relationship," a third added. "So... unique."

Each word was a tiny knife. They all knew exactly what they were doing—reminding me that I was the outsider in my own marriage.

I gripped my champagne glass tighter. "Isabella is very special to the family."

"Oh, very special," Margaret's smile turned vicious. "Not every woman can inspire such... dedication from a married man."

My face burned, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me crack. This was exactly what they wanted—tomorrow's gossip about the pathetic Blackstone wife.

"Excuse me, I need to powder my nose," I said, walking away with whatever dignity I had left.

I got home after midnight, my heels echoing through the empty halls like gunshots.

As I reached the stairs, I heard a crash from the living room.

"Oh no!"

A cry, then something heavy hitting the floor.

I rushed in to find Isabella sprawled on the ground, clutching her ankle. A crystal vase lay shattered nearby, water and roses everywhere.

"Isabella! Are you hurt?" I moved to help her.

"Don't!" she screamed, jerking away. For just a second, I caught something that looked almost like triumph in her eyes before her face crumpled in pain. "I was just getting some water and I tripped on the rug..."

Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Ethan appeared in a bathrobe, hair messy from sleep.

"Isabella!" He swept her up, then whirled on me. "What the hell happened? Why are you just standing there?"

I blinked. "I just walked in and heard—"

"She's hurt and you're doing nothing?" His eyes blazed. "She could have seriously injured herself! Don't you care at all?"

"I was trying to help—"

"Forget it!" he snapped. "Isabella has a heart condition. She can't handle this kind of stress. As my wife, couldn't you show some basic human decency?"

I stood there speechless.

From his arms, Isabella whispered, "Don't blame Sophia. She probably just didn't see what happened. I'm okay as long as you're here."

That quiet statement cut deeper than any accusation. She was making it clear that only Ethan mattered, that I was completely irrelevant.

"Let me get you back to bed," Ethan murmured to Isabella, carrying her upstairs without another glance at me.

I stood alone in the wreckage, watching them disappear.

I thought about Dad's voice on the phone, his offer to bring me home, and felt something inside me break a little more.

But I couldn't go home. Dad had given up too much for me already. I couldn't let his sacrifice be for nothing. I couldn't add to his guilt by running away.

I knelt down and started picking up the broken glass, each piece sharp enough to draw blood.

The next morning, I was at my usual spot at breakfast when Henry brought me the phone.

"Ma'am, Mrs. Eleanor Blackstone would like to see you."

Eleanor Blackstone. Ethan's grandmother and the real power in this family.

My stomach dropped. Something told me my carefully balanced world was about to shift completely.