Part 2His Muse Killed My Daughter

I was entirely done with him.

Ten years together, seven years of marriage—every sweet memory, every promise we had made—had disintegrated into ash the moment Lucy died.

But Greg didn't take me seriously. He assumed I was just throwing another jealous tantrum over Scarlett. "Meredith, there are reporters here," he hissed, lowering his voice. "You used to be an actress too. Can't you learn a little grace and poise from Scarlett?"

"I invited her here for a quick press feature as a favor. Is it really necessary for you to be this petty?"

"Petty."

To Greg, I was always the petty, dramatic wife who couldn't handle herself.

Whenever Scarlett was involved, I lost my mind.

But he never bothered to ask why.

Why was I like this? Because on our wedding day, a single phone call from Scarlett had lured him away, leaving me to face a room full of whispering guests alone.

Because he kept a secret archive of photos from every movie Scarlett had ever made, publicly calling her his "creative muse."

Because Scarlett was the girl he had loved first, the gold standard he measured everyone else against.

No matter how loving and supportive I was, no matter that I had given him a child, sacrificed my own career to cook his meals, and kept the porch light burning for him every night—there was a corner of his heart that always belonged to her.

It was a space I could never conquer.

And now, I was done trying.

I looked at Greg's rising anger and said coldly, "I'm serious. I want a divorce. I don't want to look at you for another second."

Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked upstairs.

Perhaps because my coldness was so out of character compared to the doting, compliant wife he was used to, Greg actually followed me up.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't warn you about the shoot beforehand," he said, trying to soften his tone. "I won't do it again."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tell you what—doesn't Lucy want to go to Disneyland? Once this press cycle wraps up, I'll take both of you. How does that sound?"

A bitter laugh escaped my throat.

The man I had shared a bed with for seven years felt like an utter stranger.

It was almost time for our daughter's seven-day memorial. If he had called her preschool even once, or stepped foot in this house over the last three days, he would have known.

But he hadn't. His mind had been entirely occupied by his golden girl.

I cast a freezing look at him. "Go spend time with your muse. Don't waste your energy on us."

I reached out to shut the bedroom door.

Greg froze. He knew how deeply I loved him. In all our years of marriage, I had never looked at him with such utter disdain. He stepped forward, wanting to push the door open to demand an explanation.

But right then, Scarlett's voice drifted up from the foyer.

"Greg, babe? I think I might be overstaying my welcome. I'll head out. Next time, I'll just take Lucy to that seafood spot she loves so much."

Instantly, the blood in my veins turned to liquid fire.

I threw the door open, flew down the stairs, snatched a heavy ceramic vase off the entryway table, and smashed it directly into Scarlett's smiling face.