Chapter Three: The Lady of the House Has Manners

Alice’s POV

“If you want some sleepwear, Lily,” David said, in the tone he used for minor inconveniences at work, “I’ll have my assistant send some over tomorrow. Tell me what you like. La Perla? Agent Provocateur?”

He named the brands smoothly — luxury, lingerie, sexy — like a man who’d placed those orders before. But not for me.

I stared at him. I almost laughed. In fact, I did — just barely — my mouth twisting into something that probably looked worse than crying.

“You know I don’t wear those brands,” I said quietly. My voice shook, despite me trying to steady it.

“Then tell me what you do wear,” he asked in irritated tones. My persistence was costing him patience he didn’t have to spare. “It’s just a robe, Alice. Is this really worth arguing over, right now? It’s getting late. Camilla is asleep, do you want to wake her?”

Right on cue, Lily stepped in, her voice light as a feather — and perfectly weighted.

“David, please don’t.”

She turned toward me, eyes earnest, wide with feigned innocence. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have touched my sister’s belongings. I didn’t think you’d mind this much…”

She hesitated, then added softly, “If you’re really upset, I can leave. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

She actually took a step toward the front door. Her movement was slow, unsteady on purpose. Wrapped in that wine-red silk, she looked fragile. Breakable. Like the night air might devour her.

“Lily!” David’s voice softened instantly. “Come on. You don’t need to go.”

Then he turned back to me. Whatever patience remained, hardened into something final. “How about you go to bed, Alice? It’s late.”

I stood there, hollowed out, watching him move toward her. Watching his hand hover near her arm — barely touching, yet unmistakably protective.

I watched as Lily tilted her face up and smile at him with gratitude, fragility, dependence.

They looked like the people who belonged here.

And I — Alice Newcombe, legal wife, mother; the woman who had run this household for six years — stood apart like someone who’d wandered into the wrong scene and refused to leave on cue. The invisible woman. Cast aside and deserted.

“Oh,” Lily said suddenly, as if remembering something trivial. She turned back, twirling a strand of hair at her collarbone, eyes lifting to David’s. “Do you happen to have a clean shirt I could borrow? This robe… the neckline’s a little too low.”

As she spoke, her fingers drifted over her neck, her collarbones. Her gaze stayed fixed on him.

David was silent for a few seconds.

The hallway felt airless.

My pulse thudded in my ears.

“I’ll get one,” he said at last, in neutral tones.

He turned toward his bedroom — the room he always slept in. When he passed me, his sleeve didn’t brush mine. His eyes didn’t pause on my face. I might as well have been furniture.

His bedroom door closed with a soft click.

And then there were only two of us. This was when Lily’s expression changed. The fragility drained away, neat and complete, like a mask removed in one smooth motion.

She leaned back against the doorframe of the master bedroom, arms crossing, studying me the way one evaluates an outdated purchase — with mild pity, and unmistakable triumph.

“Sister,” she said quietly. Only for me. “Did you ever notice how much blue there is in this house?”

I dreaded what taunt was coming next.

“Because blue is my favorite color,” she continued, smiling. “Sky blue. Lake blue. Sapphire.” She spoke calmly, almost fondly.

“David knows. The wallpaper in the master — imported from Venice. Pale blue silk clouds. The living room curtains? Tiffany blue velvet. Even the grout in the bathroom tiles — he personally picked the shade. Aegean blue. He went to three different suppliers.”

She leaned forward slightly. The silk neckline slipped lower, pale skin bright against shadow. “Because I once told him blue makes me feel calm. Like lying by the sea in a secret place where no one can find you.”

She straightened, watching my face drain of color.

“He always planned for me to be the woman in this house,” she said lightly. “Every inch of it. The layout. The furniture. Even the scent in the air.”

Each word struck with surgical precision.

I remembered the day we moved in. The blues everywhere — walls, curtains, rugs, art.

I’d asked him, “Why so much blue? Is that your favorite?”

He’d barely looked up from his files. “It’s calm,” he’d said. “Easy on the eyes.”

When I tried to replace some of it with warmer colors, he frowned. “No need to ruin my decor. You’ll get used to it.”

It wasn’t calm. It wasn’t serene. It was another woman’s taste. Another woman’s home. A space prepared for someone else — into which I’d wandered, naïvely trying to make it mine.

That was when it struck me. When my world caved in. I had never been the intended lady of this house. I was just a placeholder!

“One day,” Lily said gently, pulling me back to the present, “It’ll just be like I moved in late. That’s all.”

Her eyes skimmed my trembling hands, the crack in my composure. Her smile settled into something perfect.

“But what’s meant to be mine always comes back to me,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

Down the hallway, the bedroom door opened.