I try to make small talk.
"The weather's nice today, huh?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you worked here long?"
"A few years, ma'am."
It doesn't land. Not rudely—just neutrally. Conversations that end before they begin.
I stop trying.
Everyone here knows their role.
Mine hasn't been defined yet.
I find myself near my room again, drawn by the sound of voices.
The staff are talking.
Not loud. Just… present. Human. The way people sound when they think no one important is listening.
I slow my steps without meaning to.
"—and her clothes?"
A woman's voice. Amused, but not unkind.
"All sequins and rhinestones," another replies. "Like she raided a clearance rack."
Laughter. Quiet, but unmistakable.
"So trashy."
I stop.
My face stays neutral.
I don't confront anyone.
I just stand there, phone still buzzing in my hand, my life split neatly into categories I didn't choose.
New money. Temporary wife. Problem to manage.
They feel permanent.
I step away from the doorway, needing air.
The house is enormous. I knew that intellectually—saw it when Arthur gave me the tour yesterday—but walking through it alone makes it feel bigger. Endless hallways. Rooms I don't have names for. Spaces designed for entertaining people I've never met.
I walk faster.
Eventually, I circle back to the only room I'm comfortable in. My suite.
The staff are gone.
I pull my sparkly hoodie out of the closet and put it on.
It's too loud for this house. Too bright. Too me.
I wear it anyway.
