Chapter 80
Samantha's POV
The opening credits of House of Cards flickered across my laptop screen, but I'd stopped paying attention to the episode itself. I kept rewinding to that one scene—Claire Underwood standing in her pristine white living room, champagne glass in hand, coldly informing someone that their usefulness had expired.
The way she said it. Not angry. Not emotional. Just... done.
"That's power," I murmured to myself, taking a sip of the expensive Pinot Noir Lucas had bought me last week. The rental house he'd gotten for me was quiet tonight. Too quiet. Just me and my thoughts and the fictional woman on screen who never let anyone make her feel small.
I paused the episode and pulled up Instagram on my phone. Scrolled to Lucas's profile. His most recent post was from two hours ago: a sunset photo. No caption. No location tag.
But I recognized that view. The coastline. The expensive part, where the boutique hotels lined the beach.
Where Ellie had just spent the last two days.
My grip tightened on the wine glass. I'd tried calling him three times tonight. Three times straight to voicemail, followed by that bullshit text about Caroline having a "rough day" and needing him.
Except I'd seen Richard's Instagram too. Caroline at some charity luncheon, laughing in a designer dress, looking healthier than she had in months.
He lied to me. Again.
The realization didn't hurt anymore—it just made me angry. That cold, focused anger that Claire Underwood would approve of. The kind that didn't cry or beg or break down. The kind that planned.
Lucas had told me he needed to take Caroline for a routine checkup on Sunday—"Just a regular appointment, baby, boring medical stuff"—but when I'd checked his location sharing (he'd never thought to turn it off), his phone had been stationary at some beachfront hotel for over 30 minutes. Not at any hospital. Not at any clinic.
Was he with her? Did they—
The memory of this Monday at Nordstrom crashed over me. I'd spent two hours sitting in my car outside the same hotel where Lucas's phone had been for 30 minutes the day before. Call it intuition. Call it paranoia. I didn't care.
And then I'd seen them. Ellie and Jackson, walking out of the hotel lobby together. Her hair was slightly mussed, and she was laughing at something he'd said, that genuine, unguarded laugh I'd only ever seen her give to people she trusted completely. Jackson's hand rested on the small of her back as they headed to his car.
I'd followed them. Watched them drive to Nordstrom, park, walk inside together like they had all the time in the world. By the time I caught up to them, my hands were shaking with rage I could barely contain.
I'd approached them anyway. Forced myself into their space, their conversation, their perfect little bubble. And the way Jackson had looked at me—like I was an inconvenience, a piece of gum stuck to his expensive shoe—made my blood boil even now.
But it was Ellie's expression that really haunted me. That polite, distant smile. The way she'd looked through me rather than at me, like I was already dismissed, already forgotten. Like my presence didn't even register as a threat or a concern—just a minor irritation to be tolerated for thirty seconds before returning to her perfect life.
She hadn't even tried to be cruel. That was what made it worse. She didn't need to be cruel. Her mere existence was enough to make me feel small. The perfect hair, the perfect clothes, the perfect man who circled her like she was the sun. And Lucas—my Lucas—had been at that same hotel just hours before, lying about doctor's appointments.
No. I wouldn't let my mind spiral. Because Lucas loved me. He'd chosen me. He'd broken his precious friendship with Ellie for me, stood up to his controlling parents for me, given me everything I'd asked for.
Except his full attention. His complete loyalty. The certainty that when he looked at me, he wasn't thinking about her.
My phone buzzed. Not Lucas—a reminder I'd set for myself: "Get the memory box from Margaret's. Tuesday 8 PM latest."
Right. The memory box. All those little tokens from high school—photos of Lucas and me at a skating rink, the ticket stubs from our first movie date, his old CVU basketball jersey he'd given me to sleep in, the handwritten notes he used to slip into my locker. Physical evidence of our love story.
Evidence I could use to remind him why he'd fallen for me in the first place. Why I was the one who deserved him.
I glanced at the time: 6:00 PM. I could grab the box, and still have time to plan my next move.
Because I was done playing defense. Done reacting to Ellie's every appearance in our lives. Claire Underwood didn't react—she strategized. She turned obstacles into opportunities.
And I was going to do the same.
Margaret's house looked exactly as I remembered—small, worn, with peeling paint and a front porch that sagged slightly in the middle. My stomach tightened as I pulled into the driveway, muscle memory flooding back. How many times had I walked up these steps, bracing myself for whatever mood Margaret was in? How many times had I made myself small and quiet and invisible just to survive another day?
But that was before. Before Lucas. Before I learned that the world gave things to people who took them, not people who waited politely to be noticed.
I knocked on the door, already mentally cataloging where the memory box would be—probably still in my old room, shoved in the back of the closet where I'd left it.
The door opened. Jack stood there, and I watched with satisfaction as his expression shifted from surprise to something like fear.
"Samantha." His voice was careful. Wary. "Didn't know you were coming by."