I checked the drawer again, hands trembling. I sifted through scarves, opened every little pouch and box. Nothing. My chest began to tighten, panic seeping in like cold water.
No. No, no—it had to be here.
I turned the whole vanity upside down. And then it hit me.
Kier.
I rushed out of the bedroom, still in my robe, feet bare against the cold floor, and found him at the dining table, sipping his usual black coffee, flipping through files as if the world didn’t just tilt on its axis.
“Kier,” I said, my voice already breaking, “where’s my necklace? The silver one with the black stone. The one in the velvet box.”
He didn’t even glance up. “Oh, that? Gave it to Camille. Looked great on her. She’s wearing it in Paris.”
I blinked. “You gave it to Camille?”
“Yeah. Relax.” He flipped a page. “You weren’t using it.”
“It was mine,” I said quietly, my voice tight. “You didn’t even ask.”
He finally looked at me, sighing like I was a burden. “Erika. Be real. You probably bought it with my card anyway. What’s yours is mine, right? Why are you making this a thing?”
“No. I didn’t buy it with your card,” I snapped, hurt flooding my voice. “I bought it with my own money. Money I earned—on my own.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Doing what?”
“I’ve been designing again,” I said, my voice shaking. “Freelance. Quiet jobs. I’ve been saving for five years. That necklace… it was the first thing I bought for me in a long time.”
Kier scoffed. “Designing? What, kitchen aprons and pillowcases?”
I took a step back.
“You really don’t know me at all anymore, do you?”
“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered. “It’s just a necklace. I’ll get you a new one.”
“It was limited edition,” I whispered. “And I was going to wear it today. I was invited to a fashion show. I wanted to look like the woman I used to be, even for a day.”
Kier’s laugh cut through the air like a whip. “You? A fashion show?” He shook his head. “Erika, let’s be honest. You’ll be laughed at.”
I froze.
“You’re not that woman anymore,” he continued, like it was a fact he had long accepted. “You belong here. In this house. With your apron and your routines. Camille, on the other hand—she belongs on runways, in Paris, with people who matter.”
He stood, collected his folder, and headed toward the door.