Jocelyn
The mask stays in place. From the mirror to the walk-in closet, I am the ghost of my former self. I select a dress of pale silver silk. It hangs on my frame, making me look fragile, ethereal. It’s a color that washes me out, a shroud for a woman who is already dead.
Downstairs, the dining room is a cavern of polished mahogany and glittering crystal. Logan is at the head of the table, flanked by Riccardo. Three of our most important capos, men who once answered my calls without question, are already seated. They stand when I enter, a perfunctory gesture devoid of its former respect.
“Jocelyn, darling. Glad you could join us.” Logan’s smile is a thin veneer over his impatience. “You remember Gianni, Paolo, and Vito.”
I incline my head, my eyes downcast. “Of course.”
“She remembers our names, at least,” Vito mutters to Paolo, just loud enough for me to hear. A low chuckle ripples between them.
I take my seat at the opposite end of the long table, a queen exiled in her own court. The distance between Logan and me is a chasm. Maria, our head housekeeper, places a plate in front of me. Seared scallops. My favorite. A dish Logan ordered to maintain the illusion of a caring husband.
“Eat, Sera,” Logan says, his voice carrying down the table. “You need your strength.”
I pick up my fork, my hand performing a slight, practiced tremor. The conversation flows around me, a river of business and violence I am no longer expected to navigate. Port logistics, union disputes, a new problem with the Volkovs. The words are familiar, the problems laughably simple, but I keep my expression placid and my eyes on my plate.
Riccardo watches me. He always watches. He doesn’t speak to me, but I feel his gaze, a physical weight. He’s searching for a crack in the porcelain. I give him nothing.
The heavy front doors open and close in the foyer. Footsteps click on the marble floor, sharp and unapologetic. Too fast to be a servant, too loud to be a guest with manners.
“Am I late, darling?” a woman’s voice purrs.
The capos fall silent. Logan’s face lights up. “Isabella. You’re right on time.”
She sweeps into the dining room, a whirlwind of red fabric and expensive perfume. Isabella Rossi. A low-level courtesan who saw her chance and latched onto my husband with the tenacity of a starving wolf. Her hair is a cascade of black curls, her lips painted a defiant scarlet. She moves with a predatory grace, her eyes scanning the room, dismissing everyone until they land on me.
A slow, cruel smile spreads across her face.
“Jocelyn. You look… pale.” She glides to Logan’s side, placing a proprietary hand on his shoulder. He covers it with his own, a gesture of ownership for all to see.
“Isabella was just telling me about a charity auction she’s organizing,” Logan announces to the table. “For the children’s hospital.”
“How wonderful,” I murmur, my voice a colorless wisp of sound.
“It is,” Isabella agrees, her gaze still locked on me. “It takes a strong woman to handle such things. You have to be sharp. All there.”
Her hand moves from his shoulder to her own throat, her fingers tracing the line of a necklace I have never seen, yet know intimately. A cascade of teardrop diamonds, anchored by a sapphire the color of a midnight sea. The Jocelyn Sapphire. A stone Logan bought months ago, describing his plans for it in breathless detail in a life I lived before. It was to be my anniversary gift.
The air leaves my lungs. The furnace inside me roars to life, a white-hot inferno. My vision narrows, the edges of the room blurring until only the necklace remains, glittering mockingly against her skin.
*He gave her my necklace.*
“Do you like it?” Isabella asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She leans forward slightly, ensuring the diamonds catch the light of the chandelier. “Logan gave it to me. He said it reminded him of my eyes.”
My eyes are brown.
Gianni shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Vito seems fascinated by a spot on the tablecloth. Only Riccardo watches the exchange with a detached, clinical interest.
“It’s… very pretty,” I manage to say. The words taste like ash in my mouth.
“Pretty?” Isabella laughs, a sound like breaking glass. “Darling, this is a masterpiece. But I suppose you wouldn’t appreciate the details anymore.”
She pulls out the chair next to Logan, the one that should have remained empty, the one that used to be reserved for me during these dinners. She sits, her body angled towards him, a clear message to the entire table. *I am the one he listens to now.*
“We were discussing the Volkovs,” Riccardo says, smoothly redirecting the conversation. His eyes, however, flick to me for a heartbeat. Another test.
“Ah, the Russians,” Isabella says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “So dreary. All business and no pleasure. Logan, you should let me handle them. A woman’s touch can be very persuasive.”
Logan chuckles, completely besotted. “I’m sure it can, my firecracker.”
“Jocelyn used to be quite the expert on the Bratva,” Riccardo says, his voice deceptively mild. “She had a theory about their leadership structure being their greatest weakness.”
All eyes turn to me. The room is silent, expectant. I can feel the weight of their collective gaze. Logan looks annoyed at the mention of my past competence. Isabella looks triumphant, ready to pounce on any sign of weakness.
I look up from my plate, letting my gaze drift from Riccardo to Logan, then to Isabella. I blink slowly, as if processing a difficult thought. “Bratva?” I ask, my voice small and confused. “Is he a new designer?”
Vito snorts into his wine glass. Paolo hides a smirk behind his napkin. Logan’s face is a mask of pity and relief.
But Isabella doesn’t look satisfied. She wanted a reaction. She wanted tears, a scene, a confirmation of her victory. My blankness seems to infuriate her.
“No, you silly thing,” she says, her voice sharp as a stiletto. “They’re gangsters. Killers. The kind of people you used to deal with before your little accident. Remember? Or is that part of your brain all scrambled now too?”
The cruelty is breathtakingly direct. The air grows thick and heavy. Even the capos seem to recognize she’s gone too far.
“Isabella,” Logan says, a hint of warning in his tone.
“What?” she protests, turning to him with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m just trying to help her remember. It must be so frightening, being lost in your own mind.”
She turns back to me, her red lips curled into a predatory smile. “Tell me, Jocelyn. What do you even do all day? Wander around this big, empty house? Does it get lonely? Or do you not have enough thoughts left in your head to feel lonely?”
My grip on my fork is so tight my knuckles are white. I picture driving it into the soft flesh of her throat, right below the sapphire that should be mine. The image is so vivid I can almost feel the warm spray on my hand. I imagine the look on Logan’s face, on Riccardo’s. The chaos. The end.
Not yet. The slow burn is the point. The anticipation. Humiliation must be answered with annihilation.
I release the pressure on the fork. I look directly at Isabella, right into her dark, triumphant eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t cry. I don’t scream.
I smile.
It’s a gentle, serene expression. A smile with nothing behind it. The placid, pleasant smile of a doll. It’s the emptiest, most vacant thing I can create. And I hold it. I let her look into the void I’ve crafted just for her.
Her own smile falters. A flicker of confusion crosses her features. This wasn’t the reaction she was trying to provoke. She was baiting a wounded animal, but the animal isn’t responding. It’s just staring, empty and serene.
“You’re… strange,” she finally says, breaking the eye contact first. She turns to Logan, a little of her bravado gone. “She’s completely broken, isn’t she?”
“She’s delicate now,” Logan corrects, placing his hand on her arm. “We need to be patient with her.”
They dismiss me. The conversation resumes, but the energy has shifted. Isabella has won her public victory, but my non-reaction has unsettled her. She glances at me several more times throughout the meal, a small frown marring her perfect makeup. She can’t understand. To her, my smile is weakness, a sign that the old Jocelyn is well and truly gone.
She’s wrong. It’s a promise.
It’s a promise that when I finally destroy Logan, I will take a special, personal pleasure in dismantling her world first. I will strip her of her clothes, her jewels, her position. I will take everything from her, and I will make her watch as I put on that necklace.
I take a small, delicate bite of my scallop. I chew slowly, my vacant smile never leaving my face.
A new name has just been added to my list. And her destruction will be a masterpiece.
