chapter 1

Three Years of Nothing

Don’t push your luck, Sandra. I only married you as repayment for saving my life. Not because I love you. I only love Jasmine.Ryan’s voice was flat, bored, like he was reading a grocery list. If you’re not comfortable with that, I can have the divorce papers prepared immediately.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved her aside with his shoulder and headed for the door.

The words hit her ribs like a physical blow. Sandra dropped to her knees, hand clutching her chest as if she could keep her heart from splitting open. The tears came hot, instant, shameful. She didn’t even hear Mrs. Clara come in.

Hey, bitch. Why are you disturbing the household,Clara’s heels clicked against the marble, each step a judgment. She stared down at Sandra like she was roadkill. Look at how miserable you are. What makes you think you’re good enough for my son You think looking pitiful will make him glance at you? Impossible. She laughed, short and dry.

Then came the splash. Cold water hit Sandra’s face, her nightgown, the floor. It stole her breath.

Get up. Get me some water, Clara ordered, dropping the empty cup on the side table before sinking into the cushion chair like a queen.

O-okay, Sandra nodded. She forced her trembling legs to obey, rising slowly while her teeth chattered. The wet fabric clung to her skin, turning every inhale to ice. I don’t know why Ryan still keeps you in this house, Clara mused, inspecting her nails.

Sandra said nothing. She’d learned silence was safer.

In the kitchen, with the faucet running to drown out her sobs, she let herself remember. Three years ago she was just the maid who loved him from a distance. The girl who mopped floors and folded his shirts and never once caught his eye. Then the car. The screech of tires. She’d seen it coming before he did and threw herself between Ryan and death without thinking. Her body broke. He lived.

He repaid her with a ring and a contract: three years of marriage. Not love. Not even kindness. Pity, wrapped in a vow.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The scar on her hip still ached when it rained.

Later that night, the dining table was set. Two plates, polished silverware, candles she knew he wouldn’t notice. Sandra checked the clock. 8:17 He’ll be back soon. I’ll wait for him, she whispered, pressing her palms together like prayer.

Knock. Knock.

Her heart lifted traitorous, stupid, hopeful. She flew to the door and opened it.

The cold that ran down her spine had nothing to do with the night air.

Ryan stood there. Jasmine was tucked under his arm, their fingers laced tight, her lipstick smudged from his mouth. They looked like a magazine ad for happiness.

Sandra’s breath caught in her throat and died there. “You’re back,” she finally managed. Her voice came out small, like a child’s.

Yeah. Ryan brushed past her without a glance and pulled out a chair at the dining table. For Jasmine. He seated her with a tenderness Sandra had only dreamed of.

Jasmine sat, then gave Sandra a sharp, assessing look. A warning. A victory lap.

Sandra stayed by the door, frozen. He brought her here. Into our home. Into the space where I set his plate every night for three years and ate alone. Her nails dug into her palms. In his heart, there isn’t even a corner for me.

Honey, I need some juice. Can I get some? Jasmine said, draping herself over Ryan’s arm.

Get her some juice, Sandra. Ryan didn’t look up. It was a command, not a request.

Sandra nodded. Her legs felt bolted to the floor, each step a negotiation with pain. She opened the refrigerator, the cold air biting her damp nightgown. She set the juice on the table.

Before she could turn away, Ryan spoke again. Stay. Stand here and guard her.”

The tears slipped before she could stop them. So she obeyed. She stood there like furniture while Ryan fed Jasmine from his fork. While he laughed, soft and real, and rubbed Jasmine’s ankles when she said her feet hurt. Every touch, every smile was a knife she had to watch slide in.

Her thighs shook from standing so long, but the shaking inside was worse. This is the worst feeling I’ve ever had, she thought. I got used to him rejecting my food. I told myself cooking for him was still being his wife. But tonight he finally eats at my table… and it’s for her. With her. In front of me. Her cheeks were wet. The collar of her nightgown was soaked.

Awwn, so pitiful, Jasmine cooed, tilting her head. She’s crying. Honey, just let her go. I can’t stand her disgusting face.” She wrinkled her nose like Sandra smelled bad.

Okay, sweetie. Ryan kissed Jasmine’s forehead like it was sacrament. Then his eyes went dead when they landed on Sandra. Take the plates and leave.

Sandra gathered the untouched plates with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. One step. Two.

Tomorrow’s your birthday, right? Ryan’s voice stopped her mid-step.

Sandra froze. For three years he hadn’t remembered the date. Hadn’t said the word. Slowly, she nodded, keeping her face down so he wouldn’t see hope flicker there. Yeah.”

Prepare. I have a gift for you.

The plates almost slipped from her hands. A gift? Now? After three years of silence, in front of Jasmine? Her chest pulled tight with something that wasn’t quite joy and wasn’t quite dread.

She walked to the kitchen, her shadow thin and shaking on the wall, and asked herself the only question that mattered:

What kind of gift will he possibly give me