Chapter 37

Chapter 37
The morning sun glinted off the polished hood of the moving truck parked in front of Paul’s old house. A year. It had taken exactly twelve months of patient weaving, gentle touches, and "accidental" reminders of our shared past to bring us to this threshold.
I stood on the sidewalk, adjusting my floral sundress, and watched the movers carry the last of the heavy oak dressers down the driveway. My fingers absentmindedly twisted the new, heavy gold band on my left hand. Mrs. Julianne Blackwood. It had a ring of authority that "Healer Jules" never possessed.
Paul emerged from the front door, carrying a box of framed photos. He looked like the man I’d fallen in love with nearly two decades ago. The sallow skin was gone, replaced by a healthy glow; his shoulders, once slumped by whiskey and grief, were broad and confident again. He had traded the bottle for the gym and my cooking. I had saved him from the abyss, and he looked at me with a worshiping gratitude that felt far more secure than any fated bond.
"That's the last of it, Jules," he said, stepping toward me. He set the box down and pulled me into his arms, kissing the top of my head. "I never thought I’d be able to leave this place. I thought I’d die in that living room with a glass in my hand."
"You were just lost, Paul," I murmured, pressing my face into his chest, inhaling the scent of pine and soap. "I told you I’d always be your lighthouse."
"You were," he whispered. "You are. I’m glad Libby’s at school for the actual move. I think seeing the house empty would have been too much for her today. A clean break is better."
"I agree," I said, a small, secret smile playing on my lips. "She can come straight to our new home tomorrow. It’ll be a fresh start for all of us."

The next afternoon, the house felt vibrant and alive. I had spent the morning placing fresh lilies in the entryway and ensuring the guest wing was pristine. I sat in the kitchen, sipping herbal tea, listening for the sound of the school bus.
When the front door finally opened, it wasn't the heavy tread of Paul, but the hesitant, dragging footsteps of a girl who didn't want to be there.
"In here, Libby!" I called out, my voice high, sweet, and entirely fraudulent.
Libby stepped into the kitchen, her arms crossed tightly over a black hoodie. Her blonde hair—so much like her mother’s it made my teeth ache—was lank and unwashed. She stared at the modern marble countertops as if they were made of bone.
"Libby, honey," I said, rising to greet her. I put on my best 'loving stepmother' face. "Welcome home. I’ve already moved your things into the big corner room upstairs. It gets the best afternoon sun, and I thought we could go shopping for new curtains this weekend. Whatever you want."
Libby didn't even look at me. Her blue eyes were fixed on a point somewhere behind my shoulder. "Where's my dad?"
"He's at the Packhouse, finishing up a shift. He'll be back for dinner. I’m making his favorite—pot roast." I walked over and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. I felt the girl flinch, a tiny shiver of revulsion that she tried to hide. She was smart; she sensed the coldness beneath my skin, even if her father was blinded by his own "redemption."
"I know I can never replace your mother, Libby," I said, my voice thick with practiced empathy. "And I would never try. I just want to be here for you. We’re going to be so happy here."
My house. Where the basement was silent. Where the silver cage remained, though the misting system was rarely needed these days. The "annoyance" of being a stepmother was a small price to pay for the prize I had won. If Libby became too difficult, if her blue eyes looked too much like a silent accusation, I knew exactly how to handle it. After all, I was a healer. I knew how to treat a "fever" until it simply went away.
"I'm going to my room," Libby muttered, pulling away from my touch and heading for the stairs.
I followed her with my gaze, my heels clicking rhythmically on the tile—thump, thump, thump—like the heartbeat of the woman still trapped beneath the floorboards.
I had the house. I had the status. I had the man.
I had won. And as I turned back to the stove to prep dinner, I let out a soft, contented hum, the sound of a predator who had finally returned to its den with the kill.