Back in the main room, things started disappearing. My shoes from the rack. My clothes from the closet. The little shelf where I kept my makeup and perfumes—vanished.
I found out Zoraya had claimed the master bedroom. My silk sheets, my pillows, the robe Zeus gifted me—she wore it like a trophy, like she earned it.
The first time I saw the towels in the bathroom, damp and tangled, I wanted to rip them apart. And then I noticed the strands of hair clogging the drain. Mine? Hers? Didn’t matter. It was invasion. Violation.
I caught her scent on her skin one morning. My favorite perfume—the one I wore to feel alive. Zoraya was bathing in it, laughing like she owned the damn air I breathed.
She started calling Zeus “babe” in front of me.
And Zeus? He didn’t correct her. Didn’t even blink.
Like I was invisible.
One afternoon, she smiled at me, sweet as poison.
“I think stress isn’t good for the baby,” she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Savannah, maybe take a walk when you feel overwhelmed? Fresh air might help.”
I wanted to spit. Instead, I swallowed the bile and nodded.