Chapter 13: Vanishing Act
The house felt colder that night.
Not because of the temperature, but because of the silence.
Florida sat at the long dining table, a place setting perfectly arranged in front of her. Crystal glasses. Folded napkin. Polished silver.
Two chairs.
Only one filled.
She touched the edge of her spoon, tracing the soft curve of it with her finger. Her food had long gone cold, untouched. The candles flickered lazily, as if tired of waiting.
Bryant hadn't come home.
There was no message. No explanation. Just an empty chair and another echo of absence that wrapped itself around her like a second skin.
She didn't ask questions.
She never did.
That was part of the rule — silent acceptance.
When the butler cleared her plate, she offered a soft thank you and retreated up the stairs like a guest in someone else's house.
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In her room, the walls felt thinner. Or maybe she was just more aware of how little space she took up.
She sat on the edge of her bed, slipping off her shoes. Her feet ached in quiet protest, the bruises from the broken heel still pulsing under the skin.
She opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out a small metal box. Inside, wrapped in soft fabric, was her sketchbook — her only constant.
She sat on the floor this time, the sketchbook resting on her knees.
The pages were worn but full of life — designs that would never walk a runway, dresses imagined in silence. They were hers. The only thing that had never been taken from her.
She flipped to a blank page and picked up her pencil.
This time she drew a jacket — oversized, with structured shoulders and deep pockets. Designed for someone who needed to hide but still wanted to feel powerful.
She didn't think. Her hand just moved.
A gentle knock interrupted the silence.
It was the maid — the same one who'd seen her drawing weeks ago.
"I brought your tea," the girl said, setting the tray down.
Florida nodded. "Thank you."
The maid glanced at the sketchbook in her lap but didn't comment. Instead, she smiled softly.
"I saw a fashion magazine today," she said. "And I thought... someday, your name might be inside it."
Florida blinked.
No one had ever said anything like that before.
She looked down, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. "Someday," she repeated under her breath.
The maid left quietly.
And Florida was alone again.
She stayed there for hours, sketching until her hand cramped, her back ached, and the pencil was almost gone.
But still, she kept going.
Because designing made the silence bearable.
Because it reminded her that something inside her still worked.
Because even if no one saw her — this part of her was still alive.
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She finally stood to her feet, closed the sketchbook, and set it on the nightstand.
Her phone was face-down beside it.
She picked it up, only out of habit.
A single notification blinked at the top of the screen.
Her breath hitched.
It was a news alert.
A photo.
Of her.
From the gala.
Bryant's hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.
Her face caught mid-blink, expression unsure. Raw. Real.
> Headline: The Woman Beside the Ice Prince.
"Mystery wife of Bryant Kings finally makes her debut — and social media has questions."
Florida stared at the screen.
The world was watching now.
But not who she truly was.
Only who they imagined her to be.
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End of Chapter 13
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