Chapter Four: The Other Woman
725 Words
"Nate, you look terrible. Are you sleeping? You never sleep. I've been worried about you for weeks and you never answer my messages and—"
The voice came down the hall like smoke.
Soft. Breathless. The kind of voice that made you want to lean in and take care of whatever was wrong.
Fayth was in the library. She put the book down and did not move.
She listened to Nate's response, too low to carry. Then the laugh. Light. Crystalline. Practiced.
Ten minutes later, Lena appeared. "Mr. Blackwood would like you in the sitting room."
Of course.
Fayth closed the book. Stood. And walked in.
The woman on the cream sofa was beautiful the way certain traps were beautiful.
Dark hair pinned back like she hadn't thought about it. Pale skin. Dark eyes that moved over Fayth in one sweep and landed with a warmth so fast it couldn't have been real.
"You must be Fayth." She rose slightly. Extended a hand. "Nate has mentioned you. What little there was to mention."
The blow was wrapped in silk. Fayth shook her hand.
"He hasn't mentioned you at all," she said pleasantly. "Usually means someone is important."
Something moved behind Celine's eyes. Quick. Cold. Then gone.
Nate stood at the window. He looked between them once. Said nothing.
"Celine is a close friend," he said. "She's welcome here whenever she likes."
Message received. His house. His rules. Don't ask.
Fayth sat in the armchair near the fireplace. A little apart. And she watched.
* * *
She watched for two hours.
Celine touched Nate's arm when she laughed. Always brief. Always natural-seeming. Never accidental.
She talked about her health in small, careful doses. A headache last week. Fatigue she was trying to ignore. A doctor's appointment mentioned and immediately waved away. "Don't make it a thing, it's nothing."
Every time, Nate's face changed. The coldness thinned. Something underneath surfaced. Not love. Obligation. Guilt. The kind of care that comes from history, the kind that doesn't ask permission.
And Celine knew exactly when to deploy it. Every fragile moment placed. Every retreat timed. She was not performing weakness. She was using it as a tool.
Precise. Deliberate.
No wasted motion.
When she finally stood to leave she held Fayth's hand in both of hers.
"We're going to be such good friends. I already know it."
Her grip tightened. Slightly. Just for a second.
Then she smiled and walked to the elevator.
The doors closed.
Nate was already gone.
Fayth stood in the empty hallway and exhaled once, slowly.
There it is. The real game in this house.
* * *
That night she locked the bathroom door.
She took off the glasses.
She wiped away every layer of Marissa's careful erasure. Foundation. Lip color. The shadow that flattened her features into nothing.
Until there was only her.
She stood under the bathroom light and looked at herself for a long time.
This face. Hidden for eight years. Buried under wrong glasses and wrong colors and wrong everything.
She pressed her fingers to her cheek.
Still here.
She put the mask back on. It wasn't time yet. She didn't know the full shape of what she was walking into. She needed to understand more before she moved.
But something had shifted tonight, watching Celine work.
Something had hardened.
Her phone buzzed as she got into bed.
Unknown number.
She opened it.
Be careful of the woman who just left. She is not what she appears. And she already knows who you are.
Fayth read it twice.
She typed back: Who is this?
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.
No reply.
She sat up in the dark.
Celine already knew who she was.
Which meant the warmth today had not been warmth at all.
It had been an assessment.
Celine had walked into this house knowing exactly what she was walking into.
And she had looked Fayth in the eye and smiled.
She's not afraid of me. She thinks this is already won.
Fayth set the phone face-down on the nightstand.
Lay back.
Stared at the ceiling.
She did not sleep for a long time.
But by the time she did, something inside her had made a quiet decision.
Let them underestimate her.
They all did.
It had never once worked out for them the way they planned.
- Writer
