Iris
“Hello, Iris,” Selina says, flipping a blonde curl over her shoulder with a manicured hand. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I freeze in the doorway to the living room, suddenly feeling out of place in what was once my own home. Arthur is sitting in an armchair across from Selina, who is perched on the edge of the couch in a delicate little purple dress. She looks as statuesque as ever.
There’s a pile of papers between them, and it only takes a glance for me to see mockups of wedding invitations and know that they’re in the midst of wedding planning.
My throat tightens. Even though Arthur told me their marriage was only ever meant to be for political purposes and not love, it still hurts to think about it. And it hurts even more to see her here, especially in the same place as
