Chapter 3
The morning sunlight streaming through the dining room windows felt like an accusation as I approached the breakfast table. My steps faltered when I saw Vanessa already seated at the far end—the seat opposite Ridge that had been mine for three years.
She looked up with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good morning, Everly. I hope you don't mind, but this chair has such a lovely view of the gardens."
I stood frozen, my hand gripping the back of a side chair. "That's... that's my seat."
"Oh?" Vanessa's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "I wasn't aware chairs had names on them. Ridge didn't mention anything when I sat down."
Ridge continued cutting his eggs with surgical precision, not bothering to look up. The twins entered behind me, their school bags slung over their shoulders.
"Actually," Alaina said, sliding into her usual spot, "we prefer Vanessa sitting there. She's much prettier to look at during breakfast."
Ayleen giggled as she took her own seat. "And nicer. She doesn't make everything so... dreary."
The casual cruelty in their voices had become so routine I barely flinched anymore. I moved to take a side chair, the one typically reserved for guests, when Ridge finally spoke.
"Vanessa, tell me more about the gala arrangements," he said, his voice warm in a way it never was when he addressed me. "I want to ensure everything is perfect for Saturday."
Vanessa leaned forward, her movements graceful and deliberate. "I've selected a midnight blue gown. I thought it would complement your dress uniform beautifully. We should coordinate, don't you think?"
"An excellent idea." Ridge actually smiled, the expression transforming his usually severe features.
I sat in my exile chair, invisible. The staff moved around me, serving breakfast to everyone else first. I might as well have been a piece of furniture for all the acknowledgment I received. The conversation flowed around me—Vanessa's musical laugh, Ridge's rare moments of charm, the twins' animated chatter about their upcoming school performance.
Not once did anyone ask my opinion. Not once did anyone look my way.
I left my eggs untouched and excused myself to silence.
Later that afternoon, I carried a basket of folded linens up to the guest wing. Vanessa's door stood slightly ajar, and I pushed it open intending to leave fresh towels on her dresser. That's when I saw it—a thick document lying carelessly on her vanity, the Matthews family crest embossed on the cover.
My hands trembled as I picked it up. The words swam before my eyes: "Mistress Agreement." My stomach lurched as I read the terms. A permanent suite in the east wing. A monthly allowance drawn directly from the household accounts—the accounts I managed, the budget I had carefully maintained for three years. And at the bottom, two signatures: Ridge's bold scrawl and Vanessa's elegant script.
The date was from last week. This had been planned before she ever arrived.
I clutched the document to my chest, my breath coming in short gasps. The room spun around me as the implications crashed down. This wasn't a temporary arrangement. This wasn't Ridge's usual pattern of discreet affairs. He was installing his mistress permanently in our home, funding her from our budget, erasing me from my own life one signature at a time.
I found Vanessa in the rose garden, cutting blooms for yet another arrangement. The afternoon sun caught the diamonds at her throat as she turned to face me.
"Looking for something?" Her voice was honey-sweet poison.
I held up the contract, my hand shaking with rage I could no longer contain. "What is this?"
Vanessa set down her shears, her mask of civility dropping like a discarded coat. "That? That's my future. And your exit."
"You're in my home—"
"Your home?" She laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. "You're nothing but a placeholder, Everly. A warm body to maintain appearances until Ridge finds a way to dispose of you without scandal. He told me himself—once the political climate settles, once he finds the right excuse, you'll be gone and I'll take my rightful place as Mrs. Matthews."
Something inside me snapped. Three years of silence, submission, and suffering crystallized into one moment of pure fury. I tore the contract in half, the sound of ripping paper unnaturally loud in the garden's stillness.
Vanessa's face contorted with rage. "You stupid little—"
My palm connected with her cheek before I could think. The slap echoed through the garden, leaving a white handprint that quickly flushed red.
"You dare—" Vanessa shrieked, but her words were cut off by Ridge's voice.
"What is happening here?"
I turned to find him striding down the garden path, his face dark with anger. Vanessa immediately transformed, pressing her hand to her reddening cheek as tears sprang to her eyes.
"Ridge, thank God," she gasped. "She attacked me—for no reason—I was just cutting roses—"
Ridge's eyes found mine, and what I saw there made my blood run cold. Not anger. Not disappointment. Murderous intent.
He moved toward Vanessa, his hand gentle on her shoulder as he examined her cheek. "Are you hurt?"
"I'll be fine," she whispered bravely. "Though I don't understand why she hates me so much."
The torn contract lay scattered at my feet, evidence of the truth, but Ridge never looked down. He only had eyes for his weeping mistress and hatred for his wife.
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