Part 1His Muse Killed My Daughter

My daughter was severely allergic to shellfish. Ever since she was a baby, I had meticulously managed every single thing that went into her mouth.

Before I left for my trip, I pleaded with my husband, Greg, reminding him a dozen times never to let our daughter eat seafood. He brushed me off with a careless, "I got it, Meredith."

But the moment I touched down, I was met with a nightmare. My three-year-old daughter, Lucy, had suffered anaphylactic shock and suffocated after eating a seafood-infused egg dish.

As the doctors failed to revive her and declared her dead, Greg was standing on the glittering stage of the Magnolia Gala, presenting the Best Supporting Actress trophy to his ultimate muse, Scarlett.

Holding the microphone, he looked at her with an adoration he had never shown me. "You will always be the brightest star in my sky, Scarlett. The lead role in my films will always belong to you."

When the news broke, my parents collapsed from grief.

But I didn't shed another tear. I wiped my face, letting a cold, hollow laugh slip past my lips. "A fraudulent starlet and a hack director. I hope they rot in each other's arms forever."

…

* * *

The red light of the ICU flickered, then went dark.

The heavy double doors swung open, and a doctor pushed out a gurney carrying a cold, silent body.

Looking down at Lucy’s pale, lifeless face—her sweet little features frozen in a permanent sleep—my hands shook violently as I pulled the white sheet over her head.

My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the sterile hospital floor, my chest so tight with agony that I couldn't even draw enough breath to scream.

On the hallway television mounted above the waiting area, the Magnolia Gala was broadcasting live. There was Greg, smiling warmly, gallantly holding up the train of Scarlett’s designer gown as she glided up the stairs.

We had been married for seven years. Every single time Scarlett was nominated for an award, Greg made sure he was the one presenting it to her.

Even when I used to beg him to stay home, fabricating every excuse I could think of just to keep him by my side, it never mattered. He always chose her.

And of course, tonight was no exception.

But with Lucy gone, something inside me died too. Whatever he did next, wherever he went, I no longer cared.

My parents fainted from the sheer shock of it, leaving me to handle the arrangements entirely on my own.

For three days, I dragged my numb body between the hospital and the funeral home. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lucy’s angelic smile, her soft laughter echoing in my mind.

By the time I finally returned home, it was the third afternoon.

The moment I pushed the front door open, I was blinded by the flash of camera lenses. A crowd of reporters was crammed into our living room. Scarlett sat on our velvet sofa, her arm casually slipped through Greg's.

They were laughing and whispering, looking every bit the picture-perfect, adoring couple.

When Greg noticed me, a flicker of awkwardness crossed his face. But as he took in my sunken eyes and disheveled, exhausted state, his expression quickly hardened into a scowl.

"Meredith," he snapped, his voice dripping with authority. "Look at yourself. You look like a mess. Go upstairs right now."

The disgust in his tone was bare and humiliating, as if my very presence was an embarrassment to him.

Scarlett, sensing the cameras, softly called an end to the interview. She smoothed down her haute couture gown and walked toward me with a sweet, patronizing smile.

"Meredith, I’m so sorry to barge in like this," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "I’m flying to Paris tomorrow for the red carpet, and Greg was sweet enough to let the press do a quick home shoot here before I go."

She tilted her head, assessing my face. "But look at you. Your skin is so dull, and those crow's feet are really showing. If the paparazzi catch you looking like this, it’ll look terrible for Greg. Why don't you go get some rest?"

She spoke with the easy confidence of the lady of the house, successfully relegating me to the status of an unwelcome guest.

My gaze fell to the trophy in her manicured hand—a Magnolia Award for Best Supporting Actress.

For a cheap, meaningless award, Greg had left our three-year-old daughter home alone.

I had called him dozens of times, sobbing into the receiver, only to be met with an automated voicemail telling me his phone was turned off.

Because of Scarlett, Lucy never got to see her father one last time.

I remembered her tiny, bruised lips parting as she wept in the hospital bed, asking me over and over, "Is Daddy here yet?"

And I had lied to her, telling her Daddy was on his way, praying desperately that death would spare my baby girl.

But he never came.

A wave of profound nausea hit me.

Looking at the two of them made me physically sick. A couple of cheap, parasitic industry players. Let them lock themselves away in their own filth.

I didn't turn to go upstairs. Instead, I stood my ground, my voice flat and icy.

"Greg, I want a divorce."