Chapter 3
We stared at each other in the dim bedroom, both unsettled by the other’s uncharacteristic behavior.
“I didn’t mean to leave you,” Damien said finally, his voice tight. “Scarlett was hurt-badly.”
I thought of that microscopic scrape on her ankle and smiled.
Five years of marriage, and he’d never once visited my mother’s grave with me. Last year on the anniversary of her death, I’d waited at the cemetery until sunset. All I got was a text:
“Scarlett’s cat needs neutering. Rain check.”
When I’d spiked a 103-degree fever, his “have some honey water” was followed by immediate radio silence. Ten minutes later, Scarlett had posted a photo of a familiar cashmere scarf-my first gift to Damien-with the caption:
“Being spoiled like a princess again~Maybe I shouldn’t go back to my castle and should just stay with my handsome
knight.”
The pieces clicked together.
His reason for having Sebastian impersonate him during those “business trips” with Scarlett wasn’t about sparing my
feelings-it was because I was an inconvenient pet that needed tending.
In his eyes, I’d never been more than a stray he’d pitied.
But no more.
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“Mhm,” I murmured, rolling back over.
The silence stretched. Then his hands gripped my shoulders, wrenching me onto my back. “Juliette,” he bit out,
something frantic lacing his words, “I promised to rub pregnancy oil on you every night. Where is it?”
Caught off guard, I answered truthfully. “I didn’t buy any.”
He recoiled as if struck. “Fine. Play the martyr.” His laugh was razor-sharp. “How long will you keep up this act? Save your
tricks!”
The door slammed with enough force to rattle the framed Degas print. Classic Damien-every cold war between us began
this way, only ending when I crawled to his study in tears.
I knelt too often in the wreckage of our fights, pleading for mercy he never earned. Like a gardener tending poisoned soil, I
told myself his cruelty was merely the frost of stress, his neglect the drought of ambition-that with enough patience, love
might still bloom. But the harvest was only thorns. So I learned to hollow out my heart; emptiness, at least, cannot break.
Ah, the lies we stitch to dress our despair.
Tonight, I didn’t budge.
How ironic. He’d spent years lecturing me about “emotional maturity” and “not making scenes.” Now that I’d finally learned my lesson, it only infuriated him more.
At dawn, the nutritionist hovered in the doorway, clutching a binder thick enough to be a’murder weapon. “Madam, some of these supplement combinations shouldn’t be taken at the same time, the ingredients might have some bad effects on
the pregnant…” She trailed off, gesturing to the living room.
Two mountains of gifts stood in stark contrast:
The left-meticulously labeled prenatal vitamins and organic teas.
The right-a chaotic jumble including postpartum recovery tinctures and, inexplicably, a miniature racecar for at least a
nine-year-old.
My breath caught. Memories surfaced of an unusually attentive “Damien” last May, dragging me to beaches and mountain trails when he noticed my grief over Mother’s death. “You’ll just get more upset in this house, only fresh air and sun light
can help you cheer up,” he’d said, feeding me lamb kebabs until I laughed despite myself.
A burst of laughter shattered the recollection.
Scarlett clung to Damien’s arm in the foyer, hosting a crowd of our old classmates like the lady of the manor. Her smile
turned genuine when she spotted me-anticipating the usual meltdown.
What happened in the room merely stirred my heart, I just turned toward the stairs.
“Julie!” Her voice was syrup-sweet. “We came to celebrate the mom-to-be!”
The room stiffened. Everyone remembered Damien’s very public pursuit of Scarlett before “settling” for me. Their stares prickled with disdain:
“Gold-digging hick.”
“Only married her because she trapped him.”
Damien’s jaw tightened, but Scarlett was already gliding forward. “Don’t be shy! Julie. We brought gifts!” She beckoned
servants to dump an avalanche of packages at my feet-
