Behind The Mask

Chapter 25: The Void

POV: Maxwell

I was pacing the length of my study, a glass of bourbon clutched tightly in my hand.

The ice had long since melted, watering down the amber liquid, but I did not care. I took a slow, burning sip, the alcohol doing nothing to numb the buzzing in my brain.

The house was entirely too quiet.

I had spent the entire day watching my wife systematically turn into a ghost right in front of my eyes.

Fiona's unflinching apathy toward me and toward the arrival of Camilla was a masterclass in psychological warfare. It was working. I felt completely unhinged, desperate for just one word, one angry look, anything to prove she was still the fiery woman I married.

I stopped pacing. I set my glass down on the desk and rubbed my tired eyes with the heels of my hands.

I could not take the silence anymore. I was losing my mind.

I made a sudden, desperate decision to go to her room, swallow my pride, apologize for freezing her accounts, and demand we have a real conversation. I would offer to fund her precious Horizon Initiative myself. I would give her anything she wanted, just to hear the sound of her voice aimed in my direction.

I walked out of my study and headed down the dim corridor of the East Wing.

As I approached the last guest room, I noticed the wooden door was pushed wide open. The bright light from the bathroom spilled out into the hallway. It

was wrong and entirely out of place. Fiona never left her door open in this house. She guarded her privacy like a military secret.

I stopped in the doorway, and my blood instantly turned to ice.

Fiona was on her knees in the center of the room. She was wearing her silk pajamas, her hair wrapped in a white towel. A thin, dark line of blood was running down her shin from a fresh cut on her knee. Scattered all around her were the glittering shards of broken glass.

I stepped into the room, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Fiona?" I rasped, the word barely making it past the sudden, thick lump in my throat.

She did not move. She didn't look up at me. Her entire body was locked in a state of paralysis.

Then, my eyes followed her downward gaze, and I saw what she was looking at.

Lying in the bottom of the small wastebasket were dozens of shredded pieces of glossy photo paper. Beside her on the rug was the empty silver picture frame that used to sit on her nightstand.

All the air completely left my lungs in a single rush.

I knew exactly what that photograph was.

It was a picture of Fiona and her mother. It was the only tangible thing she had left of the woman who raised her. She guarded that photo with her life.

And now, it was entirely destroyed.

Camilla.

The realization hit me right in the chest, with the force of a physical blow. Camilla had sneaked into this room while Fiona was in the shower and shredded the most important thing in the world to her.

Pure panic surged through my veins.

I knew Fiona. I knew her temper. I knew how fiercely she loved her mother's memory. This was not a petty argument over a hotel room, a PR scandal, or a frozen bank account. This was a deep, highly personal, and entirely unforgivable violation.

I braced myself. I tightened my jaw and planted my feet on the floorboards.

Here it comes, I thought.

I waited for the explosion. I waited for her to scream at the top of her lungs. I fully expected her to stand up, grab a piece of the broken glass, and march down the hallway to tear Camilla apart with her bare hands.

And God help me, I was going to stand out of her way and let her do it. I was going to throw Camilla out onto the street myself.

"Fiona," I breathed, taking a slow step toward her. "I... I will handle this. I will throw her out right now."

I waited for the fire.

Fiona slowly lifted her head. She looked at the blood on her knee, then down at the shredded pieces in the trashcan.

When she finally raised her eyes to look at me, time seemed to stop.

For a fraction of a second, I saw a terrifying rage flash behind her eyes. But then, as quickly as it appeared, she extinguished it.

I watched the muscles in her face lock. I watched her actively take that rage, shove it into her chest and slammed the door shut.

She didn't scream. She did not cry.

Fiona stood up. She completely ignored me standing in the middle of her room. She walked into the small closet and pulled out a dustpan and a small brush.

"Fiona," I tried again, my voice openly shaking now. I took another step forward, desperate to close the distance. "Please. Talk to me. Yell at me. Scream. Break something. Throw something in my head, damn it, but do not do this!"

She didn't even pause. She walked back over to the center of the rug and knelt back down, completely unfazed by the glass biting into the fabric of her pants.

She began to sweep every single shard of broken glass.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Then, she reached into the trashcan and carefully picked out every shredded piece of her mother's photograph, placing them gently into the center of the dustpan.

The total silence in the room was deafening. It was worse than any screaming match. It was worse than the time she left the divorce papers on the dining room table.

She poured the glass and the shredded photo into a small plastic bag and tied it in a tight knot. She held the bag securely against her chest.

She stood up, walked straight toward the door, and passed within an inch of my arm. She did not flinch. She did not look at my face. Her eyes were completely, devastatingly empty.

She walked right past me as if I didn't exist, leaving me standing alone in the wreckage of a cage I could no longer control.