Chapter 3 — The Perfect Host
Catherine Moore
Catherine stood motionless before the gilded mirror in the Moore Estate’s master bedroom, her reflection a stranger wrapped in pale blue. The sheath dress, chosen by Maxwell, was modest, its soft fabric skimming her knees. The neckline toed a careful line between elegant and demure. The color, he had declared, was "appropriate yet inviting," as though even the shade of her dress was a calculated chess move in his endless game. Her long dark hair was swept into a soft chignon, held fast by tortoiseshell pins. She tugged at the hem of the dress, her movements slow and deliberate, as if smoothing it might somehow dissolve the dread pooling in her stomach. The dress wasn’t tight, yet Catherine felt utterly constricted.
From the doorway, Maxwell's voice broke the quiet. “You look perfect, my dear.” Smooth, almost sweet, but the sharpness beneath it was unmistakable.
Catherine turned reflexively, her lips twitching into a practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. Her voice was light, a feather against the heavy tension in the room.
Maxwell crossed the plush carpet with calculated ease, his presence consuming every inch of space. “You remember what we discussed, don’t you?” He brushed an invisible speck of lint from her shoulder, his fingers lingering just enough to make her skin crawl. “Attentive, gracious, poised—all of it. No unnecessary chatter.” His eyes caught hers in the mirror, a warning gleaming just beneath his polished exterior. “And certainly nothing that might cause discomfort.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, lowering her gaze to the carved gold trim of the vanity. The intricate designs blurred as her pulse quickened.
Maxwell’s hand slid to her waist, the pressure firm, rooted. “You’re learning, Catherine. That’s what I like to see.” He paused, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips before he pressed a calculated kiss to her temple. “The guests will be arriving shortly. Be ready.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and Catherine exhaled the breath she had been holding. The ache in her chest didn’t ease. Her fingers brushed the locket hidden beneath her dress, the cool silver grounding her for a fleeting moment. The words *Find your light* whispered in her mind, but they felt distant in the suffocating weight of Maxwell’s expectations. She let her hand drop and turned toward the door, her heels muffled against the carpet as she descended the grand staircase.
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The dining room was a masterpiece of controlled opulence. The polished mahogany table stretched long beneath the gleam of the chandelier, its arms dripping crystal strands that scattered light like shards of ice. Bone china, edged in gold filigree, stood at perfect angles atop embroidered placemats, while crystal goblets sparkled in the soft glow. The white roses in the centerpiece exuded a faint, almost cloying fragrance, mingling with the aroma of roasted vegetables and poached salmon wafting from the kitchen. Maxwell had, as always, ensured that every detail was flawless.
Yet, as Catherine adjusted the position of a napkin at her place setting, she noticed a faint crack in the corner of the room’s crown molding—a blemish invisible to most but glaring to her. It was so small, so inconsequential, and yet, for a moment, it felt like a fissure in her carefully constructed world. A reminder that even perfection, when propped up by such weight, could break. Her fingers stilled as she swallowed the thought, but the crack lingered in her mind, quiet but persistent.
“Catherine, darling, what a lovely home you have!” Evelyn Grayson’s voice, sharp and saccharine, cut through the hum of conversation as the women began to gather. Dressed in cream silk that shimmered under the chandelier’s glow, she strode into the room with the confidence of someone who commanded attention. Her sharp eyes flitted across the room, taking inventory with clinical precision. “You must tell me where you found those curtains—they’re simply divine.”
Catherine opened her mouth, but the words tangled in her throat. “Oh, I—Maxwell chose them,” she managed, her voice barely audible over the women’s chatter.
Evelyn’s smile froze, her lips curving just shy of condescension. “Well, he certainly has excellent taste.”
The others nodded in agreement, their gazes brushing over Catherine with polite disinterest. She felt herself shrink under their scrutiny, the flush of humiliation blooming in her cheeks. Beneath the table, her fingers clenched until her knuckles whitened. She kept her expression neutral, but her mind churned. Did they see her as little more than an extension of Maxwell? Or was that what they expected her to be?
From across the table, a younger woman with dark curls—one Catherine vaguely remembered as a new wife in Maxwell’s circle—caught her gaze and tilted her head slightly, offering a faint, tentative smile. It was fleeting, gone as quickly as it had arrived, but for a moment, Catherine felt less invisible.
“Ladies,” Maxwell’s voice boomed as he entered, every syllable commanding attention. Instantly, the room seemed to tilt in his favor, the women’s laughter softening as their eyes turned to him. His tailored suit, his easy charm—it was all so effortless. He strode to Catherine’s side, resting a possessive hand on her shoulder. “I trust my wife has been a gracious host.”
Evelyn tittered, her tone edging on insincere. “Oh, she’s positively delightful.”
Catherine offered a strained smile, her shoulders stiffening under the weight of Maxwell’s hand. His fingers tightened briefly, a fleeting pinch that spoke volumes. “Shall we eat?” he said, gesturing toward the table with a flourish.
As the women took their seats, Catherine slipped into the chair to Maxwell’s right—her designated place, always within his reach. She moved to pick at her salad, but her appetite had long since been swallowed by the weight of the performance unfolding around her. Maxwell commanded the conversation effortlessly, his anecdotes met with laughter and admiration. The women leaned in, their smiles wide, their admiration palpable.
Catherine’s voice, when required, was reduced to murmured affirmations or polite laughter. Her thoughts drifted to the locket beneath her dress, its gentle weight a quiet rebellion against the facade she wore. Maxwell’s hand grazed her arm once, a subtle but chilling reminder of the role she was expected to play. The room blurred in her peripheral vision, the women’s laughter melting into indistinct noise. For a moment, she imagined rising to her feet, her voice cutting through their tidy world of appearances. But the thought vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.
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Hours later, the guests had departed, their laughter and perfume lingering faintly in the empty halls. Catherine stood in the kitchen, her hands submerged in soapy water. The repetitive motion of scrubbing a wine glass offered a semblance of calm, though her shoulders remained hunched, bracing against the tension that no longer had a tangible source.
“Catherine.” Maxwell’s voice cut through the quiet.
She turned sharply, the glass nearly slipping from her hands. Maxwell stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Yet, the air between them crackled with unspoken tension.
“You were quiet today,” he remarked, his tone casual, almost conversational. But the accusation in his words was unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said automatically, her voice soft and empty.
Maxwell stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. He reached for her wrist, pulling her hand from the sink with calculated force. The wet glass clattered against the porcelain basin. “Look at me,” he commanded, his grip tightening until her breath caught in her throat.
She obeyed, her gaze locking with his. His piercing blue eyes studied her, searching for defiance, for weakness, for anything he could seize upon.
“I expect more from you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “You’re my wife, Catherine. You represent me. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes,” she whispered, the word trembling on her lips.
“Good.” He released her wrist, the abruptness of it almost as jarring as his hold. Without another word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the hallway.
Catherine stood frozen, the ache in her wrist spreading through her entire body. Slowly, she sank against the counter, her knees weak beneath her. Her fingers closed around the locket beneath her dress, clutching it as if it could anchor her. The metal was cool against her fevered skin, the inscription inside—a whisper of a memory—surfacing once more: *Find your light.*
Her mind flashed to the crack in the crown molding. Imperfect, hidden, but there. For the first time, she didn’t push the thought away. Instead, she held it close. Perhaps, somewhere in her gilded cage, there was room for the walls to crumble.
Her tears fell freely now, mixing with the soapy water dripping from her fingers. The faintest flicker of resolve stirred deep within her as Lucy’s voice echoed in her mind. It was fragile, faint, but it was there, and Catherine held onto it. For the first time, she wondered if that flicker could grow.
