Behind The Mask

Chapter 24: Transparent

POV: Fiona

I was standing at the kitchen island, pouring hot water over a tea bag. The fragrant steam of Earl Grey and bergamot rose in the chilled air.

Then the front doors of the mansion echoed open. The sound of multiple footsteps filled the foyer. I didn't look up. I kept my eyes focused on the swirling amber liquid in my mug, watching the heat pull the color from the leaves.

"Put her bags in the East Wing," Maxwell’s voice carried through the hallway. It sounded strained, with tight exhaustion. "The room directly across from the library."

"Oh, Maxwell, I'm still just so shaken up," a high, overly dramatic voice whimpered.

"I keep seeing the broken glass every time I close my eyes."

My hand holding the handle of the kettle, didn't even tremble. I carefully kept the kettle back onto the stove, calmly picked up a silver spoon and stirred my tea.

Footsteps approached the kitchen. Maxwell stopped in the archway. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see the fabric of his suit. Camilla was practically hanging off his arm, clutching his suit jacket with a white bandage wrapped around her upper left arm. She was putting on the performance of a lifetime, playing the helpless, terrified victim.

But I saw the way her eyes instantly darted toward me. I knew exactly what she wanted. I know she was waiting for me to scream, to shatter my mug against the tile, to throw my hot tea in her face, to demand to know why the woman who ruined my marriage was standing in my kitchen.

Maxwell loudly cleared his throat. He looked incredibly tense.

"Fiona. There was an incident at Camilla's apartment in the city. A break-in. She is going to stay in the guest wing for a few days until her private security is fully upgraded and the police clear the threat."

He stopped talking and waited.

Besides him, Camilla held her breath, a tiny, triumphant smirk fighting to break through her veil of fake tears. I win, her expression said. I am in your house.

I pulled the spoon out of my mug, tapped it gently against the rim and set it on a napkin. I picked up my tea, letting the warmth bleed into my palms.

I turned around and walked toward the archway. Maxwell instinctively tensed his shoulders, ready to intercept me if I lunged at Camilla. He thought I was going to fight her for him.

Instead, I didn't even break my stride. I looked straight ahead, my gaze fixed perfectly on the antique painting hanging on the hallway behind them. I didn't acknowledge Maxwell's words. I didn't spare Camilla a single glance. I simply stepped slightly to the left, smoothly bypassing them as if they were nothing more than a piece of furniture in my way.

"Fiona," Maxwell said sharply as I passed.

I kept walking.

"Did you hear him?" Camilla snapped, her fake persona cracking instantly in the face of my apathy. "I'm moving in. I'm staying here."

I didn't stop. I didn't blink.

I treated them exactly like what they were to me now- transparent, meaningless glass. They had no power over me because they simply did not exist in my world anymore. I walked down the long corridor, stepped into my guest room, and quietly shut the door.

For the rest of the day, I maintained the exact same energy.

I worked on Gabriel’s shipping manifests on my laptop. I meticulously routed supply trucks, verified medical codes for the shipments heading to the clinic in Cambodia, and negotiated transit taxes with local contacts. It was demanding, life-saving work, and it anchored me to reality.

When my stomach finally demanded food around one o'clock, I went out to the patio to eat a crisp salad, I made for lunch.

Camilla, unable to handle being ignored, loudly paraded around the pool in a designer swimsuit, laughing overly loud on her cell phone, aggressively splashing water, and repeatedly sighing dramatically to ensure I noticed her.

I didn't even look up from the pages of my book I had brought outside. I slowly chewed my food, turned the page, and let the sun warm my face.

Later in the afternoon, when I went to the library to find a reference book, Maxwell tried to corner me in the library, I simply turned down a different aisle and left through the back doors.

It was driving Camilla absolutely insane. She had come here to gloat, to claim her territory, and to watch me break. But you cannot fight a war against an opponent who refuses to step onto the battlefield.

By 9:00 PM, the mansion was quiet.

I stretched my arms over my head, my lower back aching from sitting at the small desk for hours. I needed a shower to wash off the suffocating energy of the house.

I left my room, walking down the hall to the massive guest bathroom. I took my time, letting the scalding hot water run over my shoulders, clearing my head. For twenty minutes, I felt completely at peace. I was plotting my permanent escape, funneling every spare minute into Gabriel's charity until I could physically get on a plane.

I wrapped a thick white towel around my hair, slipped into my silk pajamas, and walked back down the dimly lit hallway.

When I reached my bedroom, my heart gave a strange, cold stutter.

The door was cracked open by about an inch.

I never left my door open. Not in this house.

I pushed the wood open. The room looked exactly the same. My laptop was still sitting closed on the desk. My black leather bag was still tucked in the corner.

But as I walked closer to the bed, I felt a sharp crunch under my bare foot.

I looked down. Glittering shards of broken glass were scattered across the rug.

All the air rushed out of my lungs in a single exhale.

Lying face down in the center of the broken glass was the small silver picture frame that always sat on my nightstand. It was the only thing I had made sure to pack when I fled Paris.

My hands began to shake violently. I dropped to my knees, ignoring the sharp sting as a piece of glass cut into my skin. I reached out and flipped the silver frame over.

It was empty. The velvet backing had been ripped open.

"No," I whispered, the sound tearing out of my throat, harsh and broken. "No, no, no."

I frantically looked around the floor, my hands sweeping over the carpet, desperate to find it. And then, my eyes darted to the small, metal wastebasket sitting beside the desk.

I crawled over to it and looked inside.

Scattered across the bottom of the trashcan, mixed with crumpled receipts and tissues, were dozens of tiny, jagged, shredded pieces of glossy photo paper.

It was a photograph of my mother. The only one I had left of her from before the cancer took her. It was the one where she was young, radiant, and smiling with her whole heart, holding me tightly against her chest when I was just a little girl in a faded yellow sundress. It was the only tangible piece of her warmth I had left.

It was completely destroyed. Reduced to unrecognizable confetti.

A cold, ringing silence filled my ears. The untouchable numbness I had carefully built around myself all day instantly shattered, consumed and replaced by a pure, volcanic rage.

Maxwell was ruthless, yes. He was arrogant and controlling and completely blind to his own flaws. But Maxwell respected property. Maxwell would never cross the line into petty, vindictive destruction of a sacred memory.

Then I thought to myself, staring at the shredded face of my mother, this can only be Camilla’s doing.

She had seen the one thing that brought me comfort, the one thing she knew Maxwell could not buy to replace, and she had destroyed it with her bare hands just to get a reaction out of me.

She did not want my silence. She couldn't handle my silence. She desperately wanted a war. She wanted me to descend to her level, to fight in the mud, to scream and claw and show Maxwell how unhinged I could be.

I slowly stood up from the floor, a drop of blood trailing down my knee.

She wanted a war.

She's going to get one.