Chapter 4
The necklace? Gone.
My fingers trembled as I rifled through
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the drawer again. I pulled apart scarves, unzipped every pouch, opened every box. Still nothing. A cold wave of panic began creeping up my chest, wrapping tighter with every breath.
No. No, no–this couldn’t be happening.
I tore through the vanity, knocking over perfume bottles and spilling makeup
brushes across the floor. And then it struck
- me.
“Logan!”
My bare feet slapped against the icy tiles as I flew from the bedroom, robe fluttering behind me. There he sat – casually thumbing through documents, steaming black coffee in hand, completely unfazed while my entire reality had just shattered.
“Logan,” I said, my voice already cracking, “where’s my necklace? The silver one with the black stone. The one in the velvet box.””
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Without even glancing up, he replied, “Oh, that? I gave it to Lauren. Looked good on her. She’s got it in Milan now.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You gave it to Lauren?”
“Yeah. Chill out,” he said, flipping a page. “You weren’t wearing it.”
“It was mine,” I whispered, my throat tight. “You didn’t even ask me.”
He finally met my eyes and let out a sigh, the kind you use when someone’s exhausting. “Penelope, come on. You probably bought it with my credit card anyway. What’s mine is yours, right? So what’s the big deal?”
“I didn’t use your card,” I snapped, my voice shaking with hurt. “I paid for it myself–with money I earned. On my own.”
One of his brows lifted in amusement. “Doing what, exactly?”
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“I’ve started designing again… ” I said, barely able to keep my voice steady. “small freelance projects here and there. Five years of saving every penny. That necklace…‘it was the first thing I’d bought myself in… God, I can’t even remember how long.”
Logan let out a dry laugh. “Designing? What, like oven mitts and throw pillows?”
I stepped back, something inside me folding in on itself.
“You really don’t know me at all anymore, do you?”
He muttered, “God, you’re being dramatic. It’s a necklace. I’ll buy you another one.”
“It was a limited edition,” I said softly. “And I was going to wear it today. I got invited to a fashion show. Just wanted to feel like the woman I used to be. For one day.””
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His laughter cracked through the room like a whip. “You? A fashion show?” He shook his head. “Penelope, be serious. They’ll laugh at you.”
I froze in place.
“You’re not her anymore,” he added, like it was just a simple truth. “You belong here- in this house, with your routines and aprons. Lauren’s the one who belongs in Milan. On the runway. With people who actually matter.”
He stood up, gathered his papers, and started for the door.
“Skip the show, he muttered, keeping his back turned. “You’ll just make a fool of yourself. Didn’t I tell you to pack our things? Is it done yet? Get to it. Check everything – we can’t afford to leave anything behind.”
Then he was gone.
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Hatred for how small I’d let myself become. For how easily they crushed me–without ever raising their voices. For the years I spent giving pieces of myself away until there was nothing left but silence and chores.
I sat down at the edge of the bed, eyes scanning the room. Our carefully arranged little prison. Walls I had chosen paint for. Sheets I had folded a hundred times. Photo frames that didn’t hold love anymore–just proof that I once stood beside him.
“I should’ve done this a long time ago.”
“I should’ve chosen myself sooner.”
But I didn’t. I gave two decades to a man who never saw me. To a family that never thanked me. I chose obedience over honesty. Sacrifice over self.
And what did it leave me
withe
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Nothing.
I stood up.
I pulled the dress from the closet–the one I had picked for the fashion show, the one Logan said was “too loud” for someone like me. I wore it anyway. Styled my hair the way I liked. Put on the lipstick he said made me look “too old to be noticed.”
Then I walked out the door.
They wouldn’t even realize I was gone.
I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to the gallery. It was time for the photoshoot.
A young assistant greeted me as I arrived. “We’re ready when you are,” she said with a warm smile, leading me into a room bathed in golden light. “You’re going to look amazing!”
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I stepped in front of the camera.
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The photographer peered through his lens. “Are you sure you want these to look like bridal portraits? And you’ll be alone in them?”
I nodded. “Yes. I don’t have a husband.”
He gave a slight nod and started snapping shots. With every click, something heavy lifted from my chest. I felt like I was peeling off the layers of someone else’s expectations.
And then I remembered something Logan said long ago. The line that once convinced me to stay.
“Penelope, I know Lauren’s the one everyone admires, but she’d never choose someone like me. She wants the spotlight. You? You’ll stay. You’ll love me. You’ll be my peace.”
He promised me the best life.
We gave me a kitchen
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He gave me a kitchen.
But he gave Lauren the world.
Under the soft lights, I smiled into the lens. Not the polite smile I wore for guests. Not the strained one I gave when Lauren handed me a gift.
This smile was mine.
I left the studio with a single photograph- me, in a dress I loved, living a life I was finally beginning to claim as my own.
That night, the house was still empty. They were probably out again–some dinner, maybe another celebration. Laughing. Posting photos I’d never be in.
I didn’t care.
Because I wasn’t staying.
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Flight to Milan One seat.
Click.
Booked.
لل الي
And this time, I wouldn’t be going as someone’s wife. Not as a tag–along. Not as a shadow in someone else’s spotlight.
But as a woman chasing her own dream.
