Emptiness

The Smith mansion was as vast and immaculate as the photographs in glossy lifestyle magazines suggested, but Mya had long since stopped seeing its grandeur. The marble floors reflected her heels as she crossed the foyer, each step echoing back at her as though mocking the silence. The high ceilings and chandeliers were impressive to guests, but to her they were only reminders of how empty this house felt. It was beautiful—coldly beautiful, like the surface of a diamond that cut her skin every time she touched it.

She had been Mya Smith for three years. Three years of luxury clothing, designer jewelry, and chauffeurs waiting at the curb in sleek black cars. On paper, she had everything a woman could want. In reality, she had never felt so invisible. Damon was rarely home. When he was, he lived behind the glow of his phone or buried in meetings that carried into the night. Their marriage, hailed in the press as a “power couple union,” was nothing but a hollow shell.

Mya paused in the living room, her gaze sliding over the grand piano Damon’s mother insisted they display, though no one played. The house staff moved around her like ghosts—polite, efficient, and trained not to look at her too long. Even here, in a house that was supposed to be hers, she felt like a guest overstaying her welcome.

Dinner was the only time she saw her husband during the week, and even then, it was not to be with him but to endure the company of his mother, Lorraine Smith, and his sister, Caroline. Tonight was no different.

The dining room was set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses, the table stretching nearly the length of the room. Lorraine sat at the far end, already sipping from a glass of red wine, while Caroline idly scrolled her phone, a smirk tugging her lips. Damon was there too, seated beside them, his face cast in the blue light of his own device. His thumbs moved rapidly, the faint sound of typing the only sign that he was aware of the world around him.

Mya slipped into her chair quietly, her eyes dropping to her plate. The chef had prepared roasted duck, truffle potatoes, and a delicate salad drizzled with citrus dressing. It smelled divine, but Mya’s stomach clenched too tightly to enjoy it.

“You’re late,” Lorraine said smoothly, her tone carrying the bite of disapproval without needing to be raised. “A wife should make the effort to arrive before her husband.”

Mya kept her gaze down. “I was here on time. I was waiting in the study.”

Caroline chuckled, the sound brittle. “Oh, Damon never notices, Mya. You could wear a ball gown and dance naked on this table, and he wouldn’t look up from his phone.”

Lorraine’s lips curved in a smile, but her eyes remained hard. “Caroline.”

“What? I’m only saying what we’re all thinking,” Caroline said with a shrug, her gaze flicking dismissively toward Mya.

Heat spread in Mya’s chest, but she swallowed it down. There was no point in defending herself. Every word she spoke was ammunition for them. She focused instead on her plate, cutting into the duck mechanically.

Lorraine leaned forward, her bracelets clinking softly. “You know, Mya, I was speaking to Mrs. Aldridge this morning. Her daughter just graduated from Harvard Business with top honors. Such an impressive young woman—already stepping into leadership in her father’s firm.” Lorraine’s eyes slid to Mya, cool and assessing. “Women like that bring true value to a marriage.”

The implication landed heavy. Mya’s fork faltered, but she pressed her lips together, forcing her expression to remain composed.

Damon still hadn’t looked up. His phone buzzed, and he chuckled under his breath at whatever message flashed across the screen. To him, this dinner was a chore, an obligation. Mya wasn’t a wife to him—she was an accessory, a placeholder.

Caroline’s grin widened as though she could sense the sting. “Oh, mother, don’t be cruel. Mya does bring value. She looks lovely on magazine covers, doesn’t she? Like the perfect trophy on Damon’s arm.”

Laughter rippled between Lorraine and Caroline, sharp and cutting. Mya felt her pulse in her throat, but she forced herself to take another bite, chewing slowly, deliberately. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

The clinking of silverware was the only sound until Damon finally set his phone down. For a brief moment, hope stirred in Mya that he might notice her, acknowledge her existence. Instead, he adjusted his cufflinks and said casually, “I’ve asked Sloane to stay with us for a while.”

Mya froze. “Sloane?”

Lorraine’s lips curved with approval. “How wonderful. It’s been years since we’ve seen her.”

Caroline’s smirk sharpened. “Of course you have. She’s always been part of the family.”

Mya’s stomach twisted. Sloane Monroe. The name was a blade carving across her chest. Damon’s first love, the one everyone whispered he should have married. Sloane, with her effortless beauty and socialite charm, who had never left the orbit of Damon’s life no matter how many years passed.

“She’ll be helping with some projects at the company,” Damon continued smoothly, finally lifting his gaze to Mya. His eyes were cool, detached. “It makes sense for her to stay here. I trust you’ll make her comfortable.”

For a moment, the words didn’t process. Mya’s hands tightened around her knife and fork, her knuckles paling. He wanted her to host the woman who had always been a shadow over their marriage.

Lorraine tilted her head, feigning innocence. “You don’t mind, do you, Mya? After all, Sloane has been a dear friend to Damon since childhood. It’s only natural.”

Caroline let out a low laugh. “Natural? It’s practically fate.”

Mya forced herself to breathe, her pulse hammering in her ears. She wanted to scream, to throw her glass across the room, to demand how Damon could humiliate her so openly. But when she looked at him, at the man she had once believed she loved, she saw nothing—no remorse, no care, not even awareness of the cruelty of his words.

The weight of realization sank in like lead: she was nothing to him. Not a wife. Not even a person.

Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, brittle but steady. “Of course,” she said softly. “I’ll see that she’s comfortable.”

Lorraine’s satisfied nod, Caroline’s mocking smirk, and Damon’s return to his phone sealed the moment in her memory. A snapshot of her breaking point.

For the rest of the meal, Mya barely tasted a thing. The duck turned to ash on her tongue, the chatter around her a distant hum. She sat in silence, her body present but her mind already elsewhere.

Because in that moment, something shifted. Quietly, invisibly, a thread inside her snapped.

The mansion was no longer her cage. It was only a stage. And she had decided she was done playing her part.