Chapter 3

The Matthews estate looked like a museum built to intimidate the living.

Stone pillars. Oil paintings of dead men who’d made fortunes from other people’s blood. Chandeliers that glittered like they were mocking anyone who didn’t own them.

Family dinner was a performance, and I had been trained for it.

Grandmother Sandra sat at the head of the table like a queen whose crown was made of rules. Grandfather Jarrell’s gaze moved slowly, weighing everyone like inventory.

When I walked in, Sandra reached for my hand. Her grip was warm, her eyes soft.

“Clara,” she said, as if she loved me. “My brave girl.”

My brave asset.

“Wayne is… adjusting,” she continued. “But this marriage is bigger than memories. You understand that.”

“I do,” I said, voice sweet. “I’m committed.”

Across the table, Wayne leaned back in his chair with that careless elegance he wore like a weapon. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t have to. His body spoke for him: I’m in control.

Then Novia arrived.

She wasn’t invited. Not officially.

But she walked in like she belonged, wearing a red dress that screamed for attention, her lipstick a shade too sharp, her smile too sure.

She slid into the chair beside Wayne.

Wayne didn’t move away.

Sandra’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. Jarrell’s jaw clenched. But no one stopped Novia, because scenes were dangerous, and the Matthews didn’t do “dangerous” in public.

Novia leaned close to Wayne, her fingers brushing his wrist like she was marking him.

She looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Hi, sister.”

I returned her smile. “Novia.”

Dinner moved forward like a train with broken brakes.

Sandra spoke about alliances. Jarrell spoke about optics. Cousins laughed too loud, trying to pretend they didn’t feel the tension spiking like electricity.

Wayne kept playing the “confused” card when asked about wedding details. “I’m trying,” he said, rubbing his temple. “It’s… blurry.”

I watched him carefully.

He knew the names of every supplier. He knew which politicians were attending. He remembered the exact layout of the docks.

But my name, my face, our years together?

Blurry.

I could have exploded. I could have slammed my hands on the table and screamed the truth.

Instead, I smiled and turned the conversation where I wanted it.

“Since Wayne is still recovering,” I said calmly, “I’ve updated the guest list and the media seating. If we place the cameras here and here, we control the angles. No surprises.”

Sandra’s gaze sharpened—approval. Jarrell nodded once—approval.

Wayne’s eyes flicked to me then, finally.

A warning. A question. What are you doing?

I met his stare and smiled like I was still loyal.

Novia’s mouth tightened.

Because she didn’t want me composed. She wanted me ruined.

After dinner, the family dispersed in controlled waves—guards rotating, staff cleaning, elders retreating.

I walked down the hallway toward my guest room, heels silent on marble.

Novia waited for me outside my door.

She leaned against the wall like she owned it. The soft lighting caught the glitter on her collarbone, the perfect illusion of innocence.

“Did you like dinner?” she asked, voice honeyed.

“I liked how brave you are,” I said. “Sitting beside my fiancé in front of his grandparents.”

Her eyes flashed. “He’s not your fiancé in his head.”

“In his head,” I echoed softly. “Right.”

Novia stepped closer, her smile sharpening. “You can stop pretending you’re fine. I’ve seen women like you. You’re all pride until the man you love chooses someone else.”

I didn’t flinch. “Is that what this is about? Love?”

Her laugh was short, ugly. “Don’t insult me.”

I tilted my head. “Then what is it?”

She stared at me, and for a second the mask cracked enough for me to see the truth underneath.

The need. The hunger. The rage.

“You get everything,” she hissed. “You always have. The name. The respect. The future. You get to marry him and stand where everyone can see you like you deserve it.”

Her voice trembled. “I have to take scraps. I have to beg to be noticed.”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “Novia… you’re not taking scraps. You’re taking poison. And you’re so desperate to hurt me you don’t even care what it does to you.”

Her pupils dilated. Her smile returned—cold, bright, dangerous.

“Maybe I like poison,” she whispered. “Maybe it tastes like winning.”

Then she leaned in, close enough that I could smell her perfume—sweet and suffocating.

“I’m going to put you in a hospital bed before the wedding,” she said softly. “So you can watch him marry nobody.”

She pulled back, eyes shining.

“Try to stay pretty,” she added. “It’ll make it more fun.”

She walked away, leaving the hallway suddenly too quiet.

I unlocked my door and went inside, locking it behind me.

My chest hurt.

Not because she’d threatened me.

Because she’d confirmed something I already knew.

This wasn’t going to end with a breakup.

It was going to end with someone disappearing.

And I was done being the one who bled.

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