Part 3He Threw Me a Centurion Card While I Held My Father's Ashes

I started packing.

There wasn't much to gather. I had lived in this so-called home for three years. The things that were truly mine were laughably few.

The dressing room was immense. The left wall was a monument to Marcus’s bespoke suits. The right side held several locked glass cabinets. They housed the jewels, the designer bags, the limited-edition shoes.

The keys and biometric access were controlled by Cassidy Shaw.

Every time I had to attend a high-profile gala, I had to request the items from Cassidy, like borrowing a costume from a prop house. When I was done, I had to return them. Once, I accidentally snagged the hem of a gown. Cassidy, in front of the housekeeper, made me write a three-thousand-word letter of apology and docked my allowance for the following month.

Marcus had watched, unmoved. He’d just said, “Cassidy is teaching you a lesson, Ellie. These things are expensive. You can’t afford to replace them.”

He was right. I couldn’t afford it. I was the orphan, the working-class girl in their eyes.

I pulled open the door to my own small corner of the closet. Inside hung a few pilling sweaters and a couple of faded pairs of jeans. The only piece of clothing that felt significant was the plain, off-white cotton T-shirt I had worn three years ago on the day I married him.

Back then, I wasn't just Marcus’s wife. I was State University’s youngest Physics Ph.D. candidate, a genius prodigy with an open-ended career in academia.

Marcus had said he loved that cool, clear fire in my eyes.

“Ellie,” he’d promised, “marry me. I’ll give you a real home.”

I had believed him. I gave up my chance for an international research fellowship. I ignored my professor’s pleas. I traded my lab coat for an apron, and in this golden cage, I had made myself a walking joke.

I peeled off the cheap, pilling hoodie Marcus hated. I pulled on the faded white T-shirt. My jeans felt a little loose. I had lost twenty pounds over the last three years.

I hauled out a battered old suitcase.

Inside, I carefully placed a few heavy textbooks, a handful of family photos, and my father’s small, black wooden urn.

Everything else in the mansion—the art, the crystal, the silk—was irrelevant to me.

I walked down the grand staircase. Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, was polishing an antique vase. She spotted me dragging the suitcase and rolled her eyes.

“Leaving us again, Mrs. Cole?”

“Mr. Cole said if you walk out this time, don’t bother coming back.” She straightened up, dusting her hands. “Oh, and the Boss wants his miso soup for dinner. Don’t forget to make it.”

Even the help looked down on me. They knew their monthly salary was higher than my personal spending allowance.

I stopped and looked at Mrs. Gable.

“Make your own soup, Mrs. Gable.”

“Or better yet, ask Cassidy to make it.”

She froze, stunned by the coldness in my voice. “What kind of attitude is that? Do you want me to report you to the Boss—”

“Be my guest.”

I pulled the suitcase to the massive, wrought-iron front door and walked out.

The afternoon sun was blinding. I raised a hand to shield my eyes.

Three years.

I had finally walked out of that mausoleum.