Chapter 2
Two months. That's how long it had been since Isabella moved in "temporarily." What started as weekend visits became permanent residency. Now she had her own key, her own bathroom space, and Ethan looked at her the way he used to look at me.
Fuck my life. I pressed my face into the pillow. Two months of this shit, and it still felt like getting punched in the gut every morning.
I sat up carefully, my hands trembling as I reached for the pill bottle on my nightstand. Three pills this morning instead of two. The shaking was getting worse, and I was running out of ways to hide it.
"Baby, what do you want for breakfast?" Ethan's voice drifted up from the kitchen, sickeningly sweet.
"Surprise me," Isabella giggled. "I trust your cooking completely."
Of course she did. Why wouldn't she trust the man who was spoiling her rotten while treating his actual wife like hired help?
I gripped the stair railing as I made my way down, my legs unsteady. In the pristine kitchen, Ethan was cracking eggs into a pan while Isabella perched on the counter in silk pajamas—my silk pajamas from before the wedding.
"Morning, Lily," Ethan said without looking up. His voice turned flat, professional. "There's bread in the pantry. Coffee's on the counter. Help yourself."
Isabella shot me a saccharine smile. "Oh good morning! Ethan's making me the most amazing breakfast. He's so thoughtful."
I tried to pour coffee, but my hands betrayed me. The cup clinked against the pot, the sound echoing through the kitchen like a gunshot.
Ethan's head snapped up, his eyes cold. "Jesus Christ, Lily. Can you manage not to break my dishes?"
"Sorry," I whispered, steadying my grip.
"Ethan, you're so sweet to take care of me," Isabella purred, running her fingers through his hair. "I've never had a man cook for me before."
Heat flushed my cheeks. I grabbed a piece of toast and fled before they could see me lose it completely.
I spent the rest of the morning hiding in my room, listening to their voices drift up from below. When the house finally went quiet, I thought maybe I could venture out safely.
I was wrong.
Two hours later, Ethan cornered me in the hallway. "You're going to help Isabella with her practice today."
"What?"
"She's working on 'Dying Swan.' Your old signature piece." His smile was razor-sharp. "I told her she could learn from the best."
Dying Swan. The piece that made my career. My breakthrough solo at Lincoln Center, the one that had critics calling me unforgettable.
And now, he's making her learn my piece. My fucking piece.
"I... I don't think that's a good idea," I managed.
"Why not?" His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. "Scared she'll do it better?"
Yes. Terrified. Because she probably would.
I remembered the standing ovation that night at Lincoln Center. Three thousand people on their feet, tears streaming down faces in the front row. The Times review called it "transcendent"—a dying swan so beautiful it made death look like a gift.
Now he wanted me to watch someone else wear my crown.
"Fine," I whispered.
The basement practice room felt like stepping into my own tomb. Mirrors everywhere reflected my deteriorating body while Isabella stretched in pristine leotards, all fluid grace I'd lost months ago.
"So exciting!" she beamed. "I've watched your Lincoln Center performance like a hundred times. That final sequence where you—"
"I know the piece," I cut her off.
Of course she'd watched it. Everyone had. It was probably on YouTube with millions of views, my greatest moment reduced to a viral video.
Ethan settled into a chair like a judge at an execution. "Go ahead, Lily. Show her how it's done."
I positioned myself at the barre, trying to ignore how my reflection looked like a broken doll. The opening phrase of 'Dying Swan' required perfect control—trembling wings fighting against death, beauty dissolving into stillness.
Everything I no longer possessed.
My arms trembled as I attempted the signature wing movements. What should have been poetry became jerky, mechanical. Isabella watched with wide eyes as I stumbled through moves that once made audiences weep.
This wasn't dancing. This was dying in real time.
"Maybe I should demonstrate instead," Isabella offered gently.
"Great idea," Ethan said. "Lily, sit down. Watch and learn."
I sank into a chair as Isabella took center stage. She moved through my choreography flawlessly—every extension perfect, every turn controlled. She was everything I used to be, and she knew it.
"Beautiful, Isabella," Ethan breathed. "You've got natural talent that some dancers"—his eyes flicked to me—"never had, even at their peak."
The lie hit like a physical blow. I'd won every major award in dance. But now he was rewriting history, making my achievements disappear along with everything else.
"Thank you," Isabella glowed. "I just hope I can honor this piece the way it deserves."
The way I never could anymore.
I couldn't watch anymore. I mumbled something about needing water and fled the practice room, leaving them to their perfect little dance lesson. Behind me, Ethan's voice followed: "Let's run through it again, sweetheart."
The sound of my own music playing downstairs haunted me for the rest of the afternoon.
"I want to buy Isabella something special," Ethan announced that afternoon.
We stood outside Tiffany & Co., the afternoon sun making the diamonds sparkle. Inside, Ethan guided Isabella through cases of jewelry like the devoted husband he'd never been to me.
"This one," he said, lifting a platinum necklace that probably cost twenty grand. "It matches your eyes."
Isabella practically glowed as he fastened it around her neck, his fingers lingering on her skin.
I hung back by the entrance, feeling like hired help. My hands were shaking so badly I had to shove them in my pockets.
"Ethan," I said quietly when he came near, "I need to pick up some supplements. The pharmacy is just—"
"Supplements?" He didn't bother lowering his voice. "What the hell do you need supplements for?"
Shit. Everyone in the store turned to stare. Isabella looked on with curious eyes while sales associates pretended not to listen.
"Just vitamins," I said, my face burning. "For energy—"
"We have a fully stocked medicine cabinet at home," he said dismissively. "Stop wasting money on useless shit."
Useless shit. Like I was asking for fucking diamonds instead of basic medical supplies.
"But Ethan—"
"The conversation's over, Lily."
Isabella's new necklace caught the light as she admired herself in the mirror, completely absorbed in her reflection.
The irony was savagely perfect. Twenty thousand dollars around her neck while I couldn't even get permission to buy vitamins to keep myself functional.
At two AM, muscle spasms ripped through my legs like electricity. I bit my pillow to muffle the sounds, my body seizing in ways that left me gasping.
The pain was getting worse. The pills weren't helping anymore.
Through the walls, I could hear their bed creaking rhythmically. Even in my agony, he was fucking someone else.
Suddenly, my bedroom door opened without warning.
Ethan stood silhouetted in the doorway, hair mussed, wearing only boxers. He'd been drinking—I could smell whiskey from across the room.
"You're making noise," he said, closing the door behind him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Jesus, look at you." He approached the bed, his expression unreadable. "You're a fucking mess."
Another spasm hit. "Please, just go back to—"
"To Isabella?" He sat on the edge of my bed, too close. "You know what's funny? She reminds me of you. Before you turned into this."
His hand reached out to touch my face.
"You used to be so beautiful," he whispered. "I hate that I still want you. I hate that seeing you like this makes me want to fix you."
His lips crashed against mine—desperate, angry, tasting of whiskey and regret. I tried to push him away, but he was stronger.
"But Isabella... Isabella is everything you should have been," he whispered against my mouth. "Young, grateful."
He pulled away abruptly, leaving me gasping.
"Get your shit together, Lily. Nobody wants to hear you falling apart."
The door slammed. The bedsprings down the hall resumed their rhythm.
At four AM, I sat at my vanity, staring at the stranger in the mirror.
My hands shook as I opened my diary:
[Day 127: The tremors are spreading. Ethan found me during an episode—kissed me, then went back to her bed.
Isabella danced my piece today. She was perfect. Everything I used to be.]
Should I tell him about the diagnosis? About why I really left? Or would the truth just give him another weapon?]
I closed the diary, studying my reflection.
Either way, I was running out of time to pretend I wasn't dying.