The room erupted with laughter. Thorne laughed. Julian laughed. Corinne wiped her eyes. Camille sipped her coffee calmly and said, “Don’t worry, Nyx. I’ll leave a few of my old dresses for you. Some perfume too. They’re a little tight on me now, but maybe you can manage.”
Thorne snorted. “You can dress a corpse in silk—it’s still dead. And she smells like failure.”
I said nothing. I cleared plates, washed them slowly, and stared out the window at the lemon tree blooming next door. They believed this was my ending. They believed I had nothing left.
They had never seen me stop asking to belong.
---
That night, when the wine bottles were empty and the house finally slept, I stood alone beneath the portrait. Hung high like something sacred, it glared down at me—Camille radiant in my place, Thorne gazing at her as though she were his salvation.
I didn’t hear him until his voice cut through the dark.
“Still jealous?” he scoffed. “You look at that picture like it’s supposed to feel sorry for you.”
I stayed silent.