Chapter 4

Scarlett POV

It was late at night by the time I finished packing.

The suitcase was light, barely half full.

It turned out that after five years of living here, I had so little I could take with me.

I pushed the suitcase to the back of the walk-in closet and covered it with some old coats.

Just as I straightened up, the bedroom door opened.

Jackson walked in.

He'd just showered, carrying the scent of body wash mixed with a faint tobacco smell.

That was the brand of cigarettes Phoebe had given him.

He didn't even glance at me, walking straight to the bed and sitting down, drying his hair while saying: "There's a charity gala tomorrow night. You're coming with me."

In the past, hearing such a request would have made me too excited to sleep.

Because it meant he acknowledged my status.

But now, I only felt the irony.

"Isn't Phoebe back?"

I walked to the vanity and picked up face cream, applying it. "She'd be more suitable for that kind of occasion than me."

Jackson's hand stopped mid-motion.

He looked at me through the mirror, his brow furrowing again.

"Scarlett, are you ever going to stop?"

He impatiently threw the towel on the bed, his tone dismissive: "Phoebe's body hasn't recovered. She can't handle the noise of that kind of event. You're my wife. This is your responsibility."

Responsibility.

So that's why I existed.

Human shield, tool, nanny.

Whatever it was, definitely not beloved.

"I'm not going."

I capped the face cream and turned to look at him. "I don't feel well."

Jackson apparently hadn't expected me to refuse.

This was probably the first time since marrying him that I'd said "no."

He stood up, strode over to me, and grabbed my chin.

The grip was hard, painfully tight.

"Scarlett, don't think I don't know what game you're playing."

His gaze was sharp as a knife, as if trying to see through to my bones. "Playing hard to get doesn't work on me. You weren't this dramatic before. What, now that Phoebe's back, feeling insecure?"

Insecure?

I couldn't help but laugh.

If this were seven days ago, maybe I would have been.

But now, facing a marriage on its deathbed, where was there room for insecurity?

"Jackson."

I looked directly into his eyes, my tone so calm it surprised even me. "I genuinely don't feel well. And also, I'm tired."

Jackson stared at me for several seconds.

As if trying to find traces of lies on my face.

But he failed.

My eyes held no emotion-no jealousy, no anger, just dead-water calm.

This calm made him feel strange, even inexplicably irritated.

He released his grip and snorted coldly.

"Suit yourself."

With that, he turned to leave.

Reaching the door, he stopped.

"Since you're not going, don't regret it later. I'm taking Phoebe tomorrow. When the media writes whatever they want, don't come crying to me."

This was a threat.

He knew I cared about status, about maintaining the dignity of this marriage.

Unfortunately, he'd miscalculated this time.

"I won't."

I looked at his back, saying softly, "As long as you're happy."

Jackson's figure stiffened.

But he didn't turn around, just slammed the door hard.

BANG.

The impact made the wall clock shudder.

I looked at the closed door and let out a long breath.

Actually, I hadn't lied.

I really didn't feel well.

The dragging pain in my abdomen hadn't disappeared-it was getting stronger.

I rummaged through a drawer for painkillers and dry-swallowed two pills.

The bitter taste of the pills spread across my tongue.

I lay in bed and turned off the light.

In the darkness, my phone screen suddenly lit up.

A bank transfer notification.

Five million dollars.

Followed by a message from Phoebe: Scarlett, thank you for clearing out the studio for me. This money is compensation for your paintings. Jackson asked me to transfer it to you-he said he couldn't let you work for nothing.

I looked at that long string of numbers.

In Jackson's eyes, my dreams and dignity were worth exactly this much.

Or rather, it was hush money-a pittance to let Phoebe occupy my space guilt-free.

I didn't reply, didn't return the money.

I accepted it.

Why not?

This was what I deserved.

Consider it my nanny wages for five years, emotional damage compensation.

Besides, medical bills would be expensive later.

I placed my phone face-down on the nightstand and closed my eyes.

Six more days.

Just endure a little longer.

Just six more days, and I'd be completely free.

As I drifted off to sleep, a commotion suddenly erupted downstairs.

The sound of something breaking, accompanied by Phoebe's scream.

I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.

Even if the house collapsed, it had nothing to do with me.

That night, I had a dream.

I dreamed I'd become a bird.

Trapped in a gilded cage, I'd plucked out all my feathers trying to please my master.

Finally, the master opened the cage.

Not to set me free.

But to put a more beautiful peacock inside.

The featherless bird was casually tossed into the trash.

Dying.

When I woke, my pillow was soaked.

Not with tears.

With cold sweat.