chapter 13: Evelyn Blake

Catherine

Seeing Ethan and Mara laughing in the living room as Mason awkwardly tried to build a couch fort was a strange, unbelievable sight.

A weight I had carried in my chest for six years finally began to loosen. He was actually doing it. He was stepping up, getting his hands dirty, and learning how to be a father instead of a manager with a checkbook.

That Friday night, I stayed over at Sarah’s apartment. I had covered two double shifts for Mason earlier in the week when he had an unavoidable corporate emergency, which meant this entire weekend was off my schedule.

We sat on Sarah’s plush balcony sofa, two glasses of red wine resting on the small glass table between us, watching the city lights flicker below.

"I honestly didn't think he had it in him," Sarah admitted, swirling the wine in her glass. "I gave him three weeks maximum before he handed you a blank check and begged you to go back to the old way."

I smiled softly, taking a slow sip. "So did I. But he's really trying. The kids love it. Mara won't stop talking about his dragon voice now, and Ethan actually asked him to help with his math homework yesterday."

Sarah leaned back, eyeing me intently over the rim of her glass. "So... what's next? Are you filing for divorce?"

"Divorce?" I shook my head without hesitation. "No. I'm not even thinking about that."

"Really?" Sarah raised an eyebrow. "After everything?"

"My life is good right now, Sarah," I said quietly, looking out over the skyline. "I don't love Mason anymore. That part of me died a long time ago, and I'm okay with that. But a divorce right now would just shatter the peace we've finally built for Ethan and Mara. They have their father. They have me. I have my mom, my job, and I have you. Why blow all of that up for a piece of paper?"

"Fair point," Sarah conceded with a light chuckling breath. "As long as you're happy, Catie. That's all that matters."

"I am," I smiled, kicking my feet up onto the edge of the table. "In fact, I had two girls in the registry department corner me by the coffee machine on Thursday."

Sarah burst out laughing. "To talk about what?"

"They were practically whispering," I grinned, shaking my head. "Asking me what brand of collagen and glow supplements I’ve been taking. They think I secretly went for a skin treatment or something! One of them literally asked if I could drop the link to my skincare pills."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her the secret ingredient is setting strict boundaries and making your rich husband do his own laundry," I laughed, and Sarah nearly choked on her wine.

When our laughter died down into a comfortable, warm quiet, I turned to her, my expression softening into genuine sincerity.

"Thank you, Sarah," I said softly. "Seriously. If you hadn't answered my call that night... if you hadn't pushed me to stand my ground and file those papers... I'd still be drowning in that house."

Sarah waved her hand dismissively, though her eyes were soft. "Oh, stop it. You did all the heavy lifting, Catie. I just wrote the legal headers. Everything you have right now—your freedom, your confidence, your peace—you earned that yourself. Don't ever give credit to anyone else for your own strength."

We stayed up talking late into the night, the wine long finished, before we both dozed off on the living room couches.

Saturday morning was peaceful. Since I was off duty, Sarah and I took our time, heading down to the organic market down the street. We loaded brown paper bags with fresh produce, berries for the kids, and artisan breads, talking about nothing at all.

It was nearly 1:00 PM when I finally took a cab back.

I unlocked the front door, stepping into the foyer with two heavy grocery bags tucked under my arms.

"I brought the fresh strawberries, Mara—"

The words died in my throat.

The atmosphere in the house was suffocatingly heavy, thick with a cold, sharp tension that hit me the moment I crossed the threshold.

The kids weren't in the living room. There were no cartoons playing on the television.

Sitting right in the center of the living room sofa, holding a cup of tea like a royal monarch, was Evelyn Blake.

Mason's mother.

She was dressed in a tailored cream suit, her silver hair styled into an immaculate bun, and a deep, disgusted scowl set across her face.

Mason stood near the fireplace, looking tense, his jaw tight as he stared at the floor.

Evelyn set her teacup down on the saucer with a loud, deliberately harsh 'clink'. Her sharp blue eyes locked onto me, sweeping over my casual jeans, my simple sweater, and the grocery bags in my hands with total disdain.

"So," Evelyn said, her voice dripping with aristocratic ice. "The mistress of the house finally decides to grace us with her presence."