Georgia's POV
I learn early in my marriage that silence has weight. It can crush you slowly, press the air from your lungs until breathing becomes an act of rebellion. As Josiah's wife, I wear silence like couture, custom-fitted to strangle me inch by inch.
On the night of Sinclair's gala, I stand before the mirror in my dressing room. The black lace gown catches light like broken glass. Josiah appears in the doorway, his eyes stripping me bare, clinical. The way a butcher assesses a cut of meat.
"You'll do," he says, voice hollow as an empty grave.
I'll do. The words echo inside my skull, a mantra of mediocrity branded into my brain.
When we enter the ballroom, the familiar void opens within me. Josiah's transformation is immediate and complete. He unfurls like a poisonous flower, all charm and calculated magnetism. I stand beside him, my smile sculpted from months of practice, my insides rotting beneath designer silk.
Josiah doesn't lead me through the crowd. He displays me. His hand at the small of my back feels less like guidance and more like a brand. I'd stopped fighting the sensation months ago.
"Georgia, darling." A woman whose name I've already forgotten materializes beside me. Her smile is a knife. "How wonderful to see you out tonight. You must tell me the secret to your beauty."
My smile never falters. "It's all in the diet, of course. Lots of fruits, very little sugar."
What I don't say: I subsist on anxiety and the hollow calories of my husband's approval.
Josiah's attention drifts across the room to another woman, a business associate with legs that stretch for days. His eyes flick back to me, taking inventory. Still here. Still mine. Still compliant. Then he disappears into the throng of power suits and imported cologne.
"That's Arthur Sinclair." Josiah reappears, steering me toward a silver-haired predator whose watch costs more than most people's cars. His fingers dig into my waist. "He's in charge of the Pacific division for Bennett Holdings. Make a good impression."
Arthur's handshake is proprietary. His fingers linger over mine, thumb brushing against my palm in a way that sends revulsion crawling up my spine.
"A pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Mason." His smile reveals too many teeth. "Josiah's spoken quite highly of you."
"Thank you." My voice comes out a pale imitation of warmth. I feel Josiah's approval like a collar tightening around my throat.
"Arthur's considering a partnership with Mason Capital," Josiah says, his hand possessive on my waist. "Aren't you, Arthur?"
"I'm considering several opportunities." Arthur's gaze lingers on me. "Though I must say, Josiah, you've convinced me of your excellent taste in acquisitions."
Acquisitions. Not wife. Not partner. Acquisitions.
"Georgia's the jewel of my collection," Josiah replies smoothly.
I smile. Because that's what I do.
Josiah navigates the room with the precision of a shark. I trail in his wake, smiling and nodding at perfectly timed intervals. A ventriloquist's dummy with his hand up my spine.
I meet Thomas Whitaker with his too-loud laugh, James Calloway who consumes conversations like oxygen, and a parade of aging men whose wealth has convinced them of their own immortality. Their wives assess me with cold calculation. I recognize the desperation behind their perfect makeup, the silent screams behind their practiced smiles.
We are all drowning in different oceans, but none of us can reach for each other's hands.
"Georgia." Thomas corners me after a marathon discussion about offshore accounts. His breath comes hot against my ear. "You must be quite the lucky woman, to have married Josiah. A man of his caliber doesn't come along every day."
The ice in my stomach spreads upward into my chest. Lucky? Or acquired?
"I count my blessings daily." I taste bile. My smile feels like a wound.
"She's stunning," Thomas continues, addressing Josiah now as if I'm not standing right here. "You're a lucky man."
Josiah's arm tightens around my waist. "I know what I'm worth."
I nod, eyes fixed on my champagne, counting bubbles to stay sane. One, two, three, four.
When I catch a moment alone at the bar, I study Josiah across the room. We lock eyes briefly. His gaze calculating profit margins, mine a cracked mirror reflecting nothing. In that moment, I realize I can't remember if he ever touched me with desire rather than ownership.
"Georgia."
Arthur Sinclair materializes beside me. His cologne invades my nostrils, sandalwood and entitlement.
"What do you think of Josiah's latest venture in the Pacific?"
Heat floods my cheeks. Not from embarrassment but rage. "I'm not sure. He hasn't really mentioned it to me."
Arthur's eyebrow arches. "Of course. He must be keeping you busy."
Yes, busy disappearing. Busy becoming a ghost in my own life. I swallow the words down with champagne that tastes like nothing.
"Arthur." Josiah appears, his hand immediately claiming my waist. "I see you've met my wife properly."
"She's delightful." Arthur's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You should bring her around the office more often. Let her see what you're building."
"Georgia has her own interests," Josiah replies smoothly. "Don't you, darling?"
I force a smile. "Of course."
"What interests are those?" Arthur leans closer.
I open my mouth, but no words come. What are my interests? What do I even like anymore?
"She's modest." Josiah fills the silence, his fingers digging into my flesh. "Always has been."
As the night progresses, the chandeliers burn too bright. Voices grow too loud. Laughter becomes knives slicing through my composure. The walls of the ballroom contract, squeezing oxygen from the room. Josiah holds court in the center, and I orbit the periphery.
I feel myself fading with each passing hour. Becoming transparent. A reflection rather than a person.
Later, the night air hits my skin like salvation. I gulp it down, desperate for something real. The car door slams behind us with the finality of a coffin lid.
"Good work tonight," Josiah says, assessing my performance with clinical detachment. "You played your part well."
"I... I don't know what I did." I taste copper on my tongue. My own blood from biting the inside of my cheek all night.
Irritation flashes in his eyes before disappearing into practiced indifference. "You know your role. You do it well."
I stare at passing streetlights, each one a dying star I can't follow.
"You need to be more involved, darling." He breaks the silence. "I can't have you hiding in corners. You need to show them you can handle being part of this world."
Show them what? That I've perfected the art of dying while standing still?
"Of course." I swallow rage and nod. "I'll try harder next time."
The words feel like rocks in my mouth, heavy and painful. Stones I'm forced to swallow.