I’m trapped in a marriage where I’m invisible—compared to his ex Sienna, erased by his family and I still pretend that I 'm fine.

In the family dinner, they sat me next to Mom and put Sienna next to my husband Jace in my usual seat. Dad said he and Sienna are "unstoppable." Mom basically said she imagined him having kids with her.

Fleeing the suffocating family dinner table, I pushed open the door to the library. The photos on the piano were exactly where they always were.

There was my husband Jace at some college formal, Sienna stood beside him in a shimmering silver dress.

Another frame: Jace and Sienna on a ski trip, his arm slung around her neck.

Another: some charity ball, the two of them dressed to perfection, his eyes crinkled as he looked down at her.

There were photos of every family memers-but none of me.

Not one.

I'd been married to their son for two years. But here, in the room that held what they valued enough to frame, I didn't exist.

My grip on the frame tightened.

I feel like a placeholder, a footnote in their story any time she's in the room.

I am not the favorite here. And I am so, so tired of acting like that's okay.

——————

I knew she was beautiful before I even turned around.

It wasn't the way the room went quiet-Lane parties are never quiet. It was the way the noise shifted. The clink of crystal softened, the polite laughter tilted higher, and my mother-in-law's voice rose like someone had just laid a crown at her feet.

"Oh my God, look who's here," Helen Lane gasped. "Jace, sweetheart, you didn't tell me she was coming."

I was standing at the bar in the Lane ballroom, pretending to care about whether the champagne was too dry. Tonight was supposed to be about us. About me and Jace. Our second wedding anniversary, hosted by his parents because "appearance is everything, darling."

I smoothed my gold dress, pasted on the kind of smile that didn't touch my eyes, and turned.

And there she was.

Sienna Hart.

Even if I hadn't seen the photos-those perfect, filtered college memories that still lived in quiet corners of the internet-I would've known. There's a certain glow people have when they walk into a room that already belongs to them.

She wore a sleek, midnight-blue dress that dipped low in the back, her dark hair a sheet down her spine. Diamonds glittered at her ears like they were afraid not to. Her lips curled into an easy, practiced smile as she stepped into the warm light of the chandelier.

"It's been too long," she said, her voice low and smooth. "You look amazing, Helen."

Helen laughed, a high, delighted sound I had never once heard directed at me. "You," she said, clutching Sienna's hands. "You are a sight. Richard, look at her. Isn't she stunning?"

Richard Lane, my father-in-law, adjusted his cufflinks and nodded in approval. "Mr. Hart must be proud to have such a successful daughter."

Sienna tilted her head in modest acknowledgement. "He tries," she said.

I stayed where I was for three beats. Four. The bartender glanced at me, then at the growing cluster of people around the door.

"Top off?" he asked quietly.

I looked down and realized my flute was still half full. "No," I said, my voice too bright. "Thanks. I'm good."

I was not good.

"Amara," Jace called, spotting me over Sienna's shoulder. His face lit up, like it always did when he found me in a crowd. Except tonight, there was another kind of light in his eyes-sharper, brighter, reflected from the woman standing beside him.

He crooked a finger. "Come here, babe."

I walked across the room, every step clicking on the marble like a countdown. In my head, I repeated the things I'd told myself all week: You are his wife. You belong here. You have the ring. You are enough.

By the time I reached them, the words felt thin and papery.

"Amara, this is Sienna," Jace said, slipping an arm around my waist. His hand rested just above the curve of my hip, familiar and possessive. "Sienna Hart. We went to college together. She just agreed to partner with Lane Holdings on the Harborfront project."

Of course she did.

Lane Holdings had been trying to land that project for months. It was all Jace talked about. The new waterfront development that would "solidify the Lane legacy" in the city. Late nights at the office, early mornings, endless phone calls.

I'd imagined faceless investors on the other end. I hadn't imagined her.

Sienna turned her gaze on me. Up close, her eyes were a warm hazel, flecked with green. Not cold, exactly. Just... assessing.

"So this is the famous wife," she said, lips curving. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Hopefully good things," I managed.

"All good," she said smoothly. "You're even prettier in person."

I should have thanked her. That would have been the polite thing to do. Instead, my brain snagged on the words famous wife. Famous to who? Jace's family? To their friends who still called him "Golden Boy" like we weren't all adults with mortgages now?

Jace squeezed my waist. "Amara's been running this entire party," he said. "My parents would be lost without her."

"A party planner and a wife?" Helen added with a laugh. "She's very... useful."

Useful.

I felt my smile tighten. "Happy anniversary to us," I said, lifting my glass slightly.

"Two years," Jace said, ki-ssing my temple. "Feels like yesterday."

I wondered if it felt like yesterday to him because yesterday, and the day before that, and possibly every day before that, he'd already had practice imagining a future-with someone else.

Sienna's gaze flicked to the diamond on my finger, the one Jace had chosen. Round cut, simple band. Classic. The ring his mother said was "appropriate."

"Two years is impressive," Sienna said. "In our circles, that's practically eternity."

"She's exaggerating," Helen said, but she was glowing. Not at my marriage. At Sienna's presence. "Come, come, we have to get a photo of you. Richard, call the photographer. We need a shot of you with Jace for the company Instagram."

"With Jace," I repeated before I could stop myself. "Is it not his anniversary party?"

Helen blinked, as if only just remembering. "Oh, of course. One with all three of you, and then one of just Jace and Sienna for the Harborfront announcement. Business, darling. You understand."

I understood that I was decoration. A matching accessory to the Lane name, gold dress catching the light just enough to prove my husband had taste.

"Sure," I said. "Business."

The photographer hurried over. "Let's get the happy couple first," he said, positioning Jace and me in front of the floral arch I'd spent an entire afternoon arranging.

I turned toward my husband, letting the familiar angle of his jaw, the steady blue of his eyes, steady me. Whatever history he had with Sienna, whatever fantasy his parents had built in their heads, he was here.

With me.

He smiled down at me. "Ready, Mrs. Lane?"

My heart kicked at the way he said it, the way he always said it. Like it still meant something to him.

"Always," I lied.

We posed. Flash. Flash. I tilted my head, hand on his chest, doing what I did best-looking like everything was fine.

"Perfect," the photographer said. "Now, let's grab one of you and Ms. Hart for the project announcement."

I stepped back automatically, but the way the photographer angled his body made it clear: I was no longer part of this frame.

Sienna joined him under the arch, blue dress a sharp strike against his black tux. They looked like a magazine cover. The Successful Exes. The Ones That Got Away.

"Just like old times," Sienna murmured as she slipped her hand lightly around his arm.

I was close enough to hear Jace's low laugh. "Not exactly like old times," he said. "I wasn't this rich back then."

They laughed together, easy and familiar.

My stomach twisted.

"Mrs. Lane?"

I turned. It was a server, holding a silver tray of canapes. "Crab cake?" he offered.

I almost laughed at the absurdity-my husband and his first love framed in white roses behind me, my mother-in-law beaming like Christmas came early, me being offered tiny, perfectly plated bites like the room wasn't suddenly tilted.

"Sure," I said, picking one up so my hands wouldn't shake.

Flash. Flash.

The bulbs went off behind me, capturing a moment I already knew would be posted, framed, replayed.

"Beautiful," Helen sighed. "You two look... timeless."

My throat tightened. The crab cake tasted like nothing.

I turned away. The ballroom swam with glittering dresses and expensive cologne, the air thick with champagne and subtle judgment. Between the soft music and the murmur of voices, I heard it.

"They would have made such a perfect couple," someone whispered.

"I know. But he married that quiet girl instead. What's her name again?"

"I forget. She's sweet, though. Just... not Sienna."

The crab cake turned to stone in my mouth. I set my plate down on the nearest table, suddenly queasy.

You are his wife, I reminded myself. You belong here.

But as I looked around, I realized something I hadn't let myself think before: I was the only one in this room who believed that.

"Amara."

Jace's voice came from behind me. I took a breath and turned, face arranged into something neutral.

He stepped closer, smelling like cedar and expensive whiskey. "You disappeared on me," he said lightly. "You okay?"

"Just needed some air," I said. "Your mom has me triple-checking everything."

He laughed. "You know how she is. She just wants tonight perfect."

"Tonight is perfect," I said, the words tasting like glass. "You have your project. Your family's happy. Sienna's here."

He frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. If I said it the wrong way, I'd be dramatic. Jealous. Insecure. All the things women are called when they point out they're being pushed to the edges of their own lives.

"Nothing," I said finally. "Congratulations on the partnership, by the way. Harborfront is huge."

Something in his expression softened. He reached for my hand, thumb brushing my knuckles. "We did it," he said. "You and me. You supported me through all the late nights. I know I haven't been around as much, but... I see you, okay?"

For a second, I almost believed him.

Then Helen's voice cut through the moment.

"Jace!" she called. "Come, baby, the investors want a word! And bring Sienna!"

Not "bring Amara." Not "bring your wife." Bring Sienna.

His thumb stilled on my hand.

"I'll be right back," he said.

"You should go," I replied. "Business."

He hesitated, caught between me and them. The investors. His parents. His first love.

Then he ki-ssed my cheek, quick and distracted. "I'll make it up to you later," he promised, already turning away.

I watched him walk back toward the arch, where Sienna waited under the flowers I had chosen, in front of the candles I had placed, in the glow of the lights I had checked twice.

It hit me in a slow, dull wave.

I'd built this entire night like a stage.

And somehow, I wasn't the star. I wasn't even the supporting actress.

I was the set.

A hand brushed my arm. I turned, expecting another server, another distant relative ready to ask me when I'd be giving the Lanes an heir.

Instead, it was Maya.

My sister stood there in her simple black dress, curls piled on top of her head, eyes sharp as always. "You look like you're about to either faint or fight someone," she said. "Which one is it?"

I exhaled, something shaky leaving my chest. "I'm fine."

She followed my gaze to where Jace and Sienna were laughing with the investors and our in-laws.

Maya's jaw tightened. "I see."

"Don't," I warned. "Please. Not tonight."

"Why not tonight?" she demanded under her breath. "Is there a better time to realize your husband's family is starring you in a play called 'You're Not Good Enough'?"

I swallowed hard. My eyes burned. "If I make a scene, I'm the problem. You know that."

Maya watched me for a long moment, her expression softening. "You are the only one here not treating yourself like a placeholder," she said quietly. "I need you to hear that."

I shook my head, looking away before the tears could fall. "I can't do this right now."

She sighed. "I'm not leaving, okay? I'm here. But I swear, if your mother-in-law opens her mouth one more time-"

"Amara," came Helen's voice, sharp as crystal breaking. "We need you to fix the lighting near the dessert table. It's too dim for photos."

Of course it was.

I wiped quickly under my eyes, forcing another smile. "Coming," I called back.

Maya muttered something rude under her breath. "Don't let them drain you dry," she whispered.

But that was the thing.

As I walked toward Helen, feeling my heart sink with every step, I realized they didn't have to try to drain me.

I was handing them the pieces myself.

The party lasted forever. Toasts were made. Speeches were given. Richard thanked Sienna by name for "bringing fresh life and ideas" to the company. When he thanked me, it was for "making everything look so pretty."

By the time the last guest left and the staff began clearing the tables, my cheeks ached from smiling.

"Successful night," Jace said, slipping an arm around me from behind as I stood near the empty dance floor.

"I guess," I said.

He ki-ssed the back of my neck. "What's wrong?"

I almost said nothing.

Instead, I turned in his arms and looked up at him. "Do you still love her?"

The question shocked even me.

Jace jerked slightly. "Who?"

I didn't blink. "Sienna."

His jaw flexed. For a second, he looked like the boy I'd first fallen in love with in a crowded bar-eyes wary, shoulders tense, afraid of being seen too clearly.

"That's not fair," he said slowly. "She was a big part of my life. We have history. But I married you."

"That's not an answer," I said.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Amara, this is exactly what I didn't want. Drama. You know how important this partnership is."

"So you need her," I said. "For business."

His eyes flashed. "I don't need anyone. I chose the best person for the job."

"And for college," I added quietly. "And for all the stories your parents tell about 'back when Jace and Sienna...'"

"Stop," he snapped. "You're reading into things. You always do this."

"Do what?" My voice rose before I could stop it. "Notice when your mother treats her like the real daughter-in-law? Notice when your dad says you would have been unstoppable if you'd married her? Notice that you light up in a way I haven't seen in months when she walks into a room?"

His face hardened. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" I asked. "Because it feels like I'm competing in a game I didn't agree to play, against someone who already won."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he said the one thing that would split me open.

"Maybe if you were more like Sienna, this wouldn't bother you so much."

The silence after that was louder than any music.

Something inside me went very, very quiet.

I stepped back. His hand fell from my waist.

"Okay," I said, my voice almost calm. "Then you should go celebrate your win with her."

"Amara-"

"I'm going home."

"You are home," he said, gesturing at the ballroom, at the mansion beyond it, at the life they'd handed me like it was a prize.

I looked around at the glittering room, at the arches and chandeliers and polished floors.

And for the first time, I let myself think, No. This is their home. Not mine.

"Our house," I corrected. "On Willow Ridge. I'm tired."

He exhaled in frustration. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"Sure," I said. "Tomorrow."

Tomorrow, when he'd calm down. Tomorrow, when he'd say I overreacted. Tomorrow, when I'd shove it all down again.

Unless I didn't.

The driver pulled up to the curb of our Willow Ridge house. Jace stayed behind to "wrap up" with his parents and the investors.

The hallway lights glowed warmly as I stepped inside. The framed wedding photo Helen insisted we take-me in white, Jace in gray, Sienna nowhere in sight-hung over the console table.

I stood in front of it for a long time.

We looked happy.

Maybe we were.

Once.

I reached up and straightened the frame. My hand shook. Instead of calming me, the small adjustment made something inside me snap.

Before I realized what I was doing, I lifted the frame off the nail and set it face down on the table.

The sound of glass gently touching wood felt like a decision.

Upstairs, in our bedroom, the dress came off, the makeup wiped away. I pulled on an oversized T-shirt and sat on the edge of the bed, my ring catching the lamplight.

I twisted it once. Twice.

Then I slid it off and placed it on the nightstand.

The indentation it left on my finger throbbed.

My phone buzzed. A text from Jace.

Jace: You left early. We'll talk in the morning. Don't overthink. I love you.

I stared at the words.

I love you.

My eyes burned. I typed, then erased, typed again.

In the end, I sent nothing.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. In the quiet of our home-the one I'd painted, furnished, cleaned, lived in-I heard my own voice, small but clear.

What if I stop trying to win?

I didn't know then that the first step to quitting a competition is simply... walking away.

I didn't know that leaving his parents' party early was the beginning of leaving his whole world.

I didn't know that in a few days, I'd walk into a coffee shop, hear my name in a voice I hadn't heard in years, and realize that my past wasn't as finished as I'd thought.

All I knew was this:

For the first time since I married Jace Lane, I took off my ring and didn't put it back on before I fell asleep.

Amara woke to the smell of coffee and something buttery drifting up the stairs.

For about five seconds, she forgot her life was a mess.

The sunlight spilled across the bed, soft and hazy, warming the empty side where Jace usually slept. The duvet was already smoothed on his half-he always did that in the mornings, a neat military tuck that looked like a hotel bed. It used to make her smile. Now, she just stared at it.

Her left hand lay palm-up on the sheet. Bare.

The ring glinted on the nightstand where she'd left it, a small circle of metal catching the morning light. The indentation on her finger, pale and tender, looked like a bruise.

Last night came back in pieces.

Sienna in midnight blue, slipping easily under the chandelier glow.

Helen's voice, delighted, high.

The photographer asking for "just Jace and Sienna" for the company page.

The video of Jace, younger and drunk, calling Sienna "my always."

Jace in the quiet ballroom, telling her, Maybe if you were more like Sienna...

A thickness rose in her throat.

"Happy anniversary to us," she muttered, pushing the covers back.

Her body felt heavy, like she'd danced all night in concrete shoes. She checked her phone mostly to avoid looking at the ring again.

Two unread messages from Maya.

Maya: Call me when you wake up. I'm still mad and I have speeches prepared.

Maya: Also, if you want to fake your death and run away, I'll help pick a new identity.

A weak laugh escaped her. Trust Maya to offer witness protection before breakfast.

Amara typed:

Amara: I'm alive. No fake death yet. I'll call you later.

She hesitated, fingers hovering, then added:

Amara: I took my ring off.

Three dots pulsed almost immediately.

Maya: ...I'm on your side no matter what. We'll talk when you're ready. Eat something first. You always cry uglier on an empty stomach.

Amara smiled despite everything, dropped the phone on the bed, and trudged into the bathroom.

The woman in the mirror looked like she'd survived a storm and lost her umbrella halfway through. Mascara shadows still clung to the corners of her eyes. Her hair was a tangled, frizzy halo, bobby pins from last night jutting out at odd angles.

She removed them, one by one. With each soft metallic clink against the counter, another piece of last night loosened.

Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. Smile on.

She'd made sure everything about herself was polished to match the party. And still, when the photographer needed a "strong image," they'd pulled her husband's ex under her own flowers and left her to stand on the sidelines.

She pressed cool water to her face, letting it wake up the parts of her that wanted to crawl back under the covers and pretend this wasn't real. Then she showered quickly, letting the hot water pound across her shoulders until the knot between her shoulder blades began to ease.

When she stepped out, she avoided looking at her ring.

Her closet was full of soft sweaters and carefully chosen outfits that had, over time, shifted from Amara's style to what Helen called "presentable for Lane events." Today, her fingers skimmed past the silk blouses and fitted dresses.

She grabbed dark jeans, a simple white blouse, and a light tan blazer she'd bought for herself before she ever met Jace-back when she still worked at the tiny community center, back when her entire wardrobe was "things I can afford from the clearance rack."

The jacket still smelled faintly like that time in her life. Old books. Stale coffee. Cheap printer ink. Hope.

Her phone lit up with the time: 8:12 a.m.

Downstairs, a cabinet closed, then another. A low male voice carried up the stairwell. She couldn't catch the words yet, but her chest tightened anyway.

Don't be paranoid, she told herself. He could be talking to anyone. It could be one of the investors, or his dad, or-

"...we can tweak the investor list," Jace was saying as she stepped onto the top stair. His tone was light, almost cheerful. "You know I trust your judgment, Sienna."

The name landed like a stone in her stomach.

She'd heard her husband's "work voice" a thousand times. The polite, charming tone he used for donors, clients, board members. This one was different. Warmer around the edges. Softer.

"Yeah, Mom loved you there last night," he said, moving into the kitchen just out of her sightline. "You know how she is. You being there made her feel like we were back in the 'good old days.'"

Of course it did.

Amara's grip tightened on the railing. She took another step. The wood didn't creak. Years of living here had taught her where the noisy spots were; right now, she didn't want to give herself away.

A beat of silence.

Then Jace laughed, the low, familiar kind of laugh she used to love pulling out of him. "Stop," he said. "You're not replacing anyone. Don't start."

Her jaw clenched.

Replacing anyone.

He knew exactly what he was doing, balancing on a line and pretending there was no edge.

"No, she's fine," he continued. "You saw her. She pulled the whole event together. I swear, my parents would've drowned in champagne without her."

For a fraction of a second, the words soothed her.

Then he added, "But yeah, you absolutely stole the show. That dress? They're still talking about it."

There it was. The twist of the knife.

Amara descended the rest of the stairs, each step a choice. Pretend she hadn't heard? Or make it clear she had?

She paused in the doorway to the kitchen.

Jace stood by the island, back half-turned, phone pressed to his ear. He wore a crisp white shirt and navy slacks, tie slung loosely around his neck. A travel mug and a regular mug sat on the counter, steam curling up in thin ribbons.

"Yes, eleven works," he said. "We can finalize the Harborfront gala then. I'll loop her in."

Her. Not Amara. Sienna.

He turned then, mid-sentence, and jolted when he saw Amara in the doorway. "Yeah-hold on a second," he murmured into the phone, covering the mic with his palm. "Morning."

Morning. As if nothing had cracked open inside her last night.

"Morning," she replied, voice even.

He smiled, quick and bright. "You look nice."

She glanced down at her outfit. "It's just clothes."

He started to say something else, then went back to the call. "I'll text you the details," he said. "Yeah. See you soon, Sienna."

The way he said her name-soft, familiar, unthinking-made something in Amara's chest flinch.

"Bye," he added, then hung up.

The kitchen fell silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

"It was Sienna," he said, as if she'd asked. He set the phone on the counter and grabbed the regular mug, pushing it toward her. "Coffee?"

She walked forward and wrapped her fingers around the mug. It was warm enough to sting a little. She clung to that feeling, grateful for any sensation that wasn't the hollow ache inside.

"I figured it was her," she said. "You sounded... very happy."

His jaw ticked. "I sounded like someone talking to a colleague."

"Is that what we're calling it?" she asked lightly. "Colleagues who once planned their whole future together and then ki-ssed after he got married?"

Color rose along his cheekbones. "We're not doing this again."

"We never did this," she shot back, then lowered her voice. "You never wanted to talk about it in the first place."

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Amara, last night was stressful. You know how my parents are. My mom was on edge, my dad was watching every tiny mistake, the investors needed hand-holding. We were all tense. I said something stupid. I'm sorry."

"You said more than one thing," she said.

He looked up, eyes finally meeting hers. "Okay. I said several stupid things. Multiple. Do I regret it? Yes. Do I love you?" He stepped closer, hand lifting like he meant to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Also yes. You know that, right?"

"I know you say it," she replied.

His hand dropped.

"You're my wife," he said quietly. "I married you. That's not... That's not some consolation prize. I wouldn't have walked down that aisle if I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"But if she'd said yes first," Amara asked before she could stop herself, "would I even be here?"

The question hung between them, heavy.

For a moment, Jace's face went blank, the way it did when a client asked something he couldn't answer honestly.

"That's not fair," he said finally. "Life didn't happen that way."

"Which is not the same as 'no,'" she murmured.

He stiffened. "You're twisting everything."

"Am I? Because your dad literally said you would've been 'unstoppable' if you'd married Sienna-in front of me. Your mom keeps calling her the daughter-in-law she prayed for. They call your college years with her the 'golden days.' They still keep a picture of the two of you on the piano in the library, Jace. I dust that frame."

He flinched at that last part.

"And on top of that," she continued, her voice shaking now, "I find out you ki-ssed her after we were married. And you minimized it. You called it a 'stupid slip,' like you accidentally tripped and landed on her mouth."

The air between them felt cold.

"I told you it meant nothing," he said, his own voice low. "You know I was drunk. She was drunk. It was a moment. We ended it."

"You didn't end your feelings," Amara whispered. "Or theirs."

He looked away for a second, jaw clenching, then back. "What do you want from me, Amara? Blood? A grand speech? For me to cut every woman out of my life I've ever had history with? That's not realistic."

"I want a husband who doesn't keep me in a triangle with his past," she said. "I want a family who doesn't act like my existence ruined their favorite love story."

His eyes tightened. "My parents will come around."

"They've had two years," she replied. "How much longer are they waiting?"

A muscle jumped in his cheek. He rubbed the back of his neck, the way he did when he was choosing his words carefully.

"Look," he said, switching into that soothing tone he used when calming clients. "This Harborfront partnership is huge-for me, for the company, for my parents. Sienna is the best person for this job. You know that. She has the experience, the contacts, the polish. She's good at what she does. That's it."

"It's not 'just it' when your mom looks at her the way she's never looked at me," Amara said. "When your dad keeps hinting that if you'd married her, you'd be further by now."

He groaned. "They don't mean it like that."

"How do they mean it?" she asked.

"They're old-fashioned. They romanticize things. They talk too much. They're... them." He waved vaguely, like that explained everything. "But you know they respect you. My dad always praises your organization. My mom brags about your events."

"She brags about my usefulness," Amara corrected quietly. "Not me."