Chapter thirteen
Lindsay
Icount to ten after Steven closes the door before I finally breathe.
The click of the latch feels too soft for what it represents—the end of the longest day of my life.
Even winning the lottery didn't exhaust me like this.
The bedroom is perfect.
Dove gray walls, ivory bedding with the precise hospital corners that suggest professional housekeeping. A reading chair by the window. Abstract art in muted blues. Nothing personal. Nothing jarring.
No pink. No sparkle. Nothing that screams "Lindsay Smith lives here now."
I stand perfectly still, listening to the silence fill the room. No voices drift through the walls. No footsteps in the hallway. Just the faint, mechanical hum of climate control and my own heartbeat.
This is what safety sounds like, I tell myself.
I set my bedazzled crossbody bag on the pristine bedside table. It looks alien here—a disco ball crash-landed in a modern art museum. The rhinestones catch the light, sending little rainbow fragments dancing across the walls. The only color in the room comes from me.
Kicking off my shoes, I line them up neatly beneath the bench at the foot of the bed. My hands shake slightly as I do it. I notice, then dismiss it. Just adrenaline. Just the day catching up to me.
It's strange how my body keeps reacting while my mind has already processed everything.
I signed the papers. I said the words.
I am, legally and officially, Lindsay Dupree now.
The marriage certificate is tucked inside my bag, folded precisely. I haven't looked at it since the judge handed it to me.
I feel suspended, like I've stepped off something tall and haven't yet hit ground. The falling part is almost peaceful. It's the landing I'm worried about.
My phone weighs heavy in my pocket. I pull it out, opening a new text to Mom.
Hey Mom, so funny story...
Delete.
Just checking in! Everything's great. I'm actually—
Delete.
I switch to my sister's contact.
Soooo, I may have gotten married today. Don't freak out! It's complicated but good. Do you remember Arthur Dupree—
Delete.
I lock my phone and deliberately set it face-down on the dresser across the room, out of easy reach. Tomorrow is soon enough for messages and arrangements. Tonight, silence is a choice I'm making. Not a failure or surrender.
Silence has always kept me safe.
I twist the simple platinum band on my left hand, sliding it off to examine it in the lamplight. It's tasteful and expensive, like everything in Arthur's orbit. Not showy, just perfect. He never asked my ring size, but of course it fits.
I slip it back on. It doesn't feel different. It doesn't feel magical. It just feels like metal against skin.
Is this what being chosen is supposed to feel like? I wonder.
