#2

Chapter 2

Cynthia's POV

I left the hospital in a daze, the doctor's words still echoing in my skull louder than any headache.

I had six cruel months to live and everything and everyone was just acting so normal like I had not just been handed a death sentence.

What was I supposed to do with six months?

My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out with shaking hands.

‘Where are you? You've been gone for hours. Don't forget the organic vegetables Mr. Brown prefers.’

It was my mother-in-law with another demand on an endless list.

No "how was your appointment." No "are you okay."

I stood on the corner, staring at the message, when something across the street caught my eye. A café with floor-to-ceiling windows. The kind of trendy place with overpriced lattes and desserts that I'd never been allowed to visit.

"Waste of time," Ethan would say whenever I suggested it. "We have coffee at home."

But apparently not a waste of time for him and Anna.

Amber sat between them, laughing at something Anna said. She had her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close for a photo. Ethan held up his phone, angling it to get the best shot.

"Perfect!" I couldn't hear him, but I could read his lips. "One more. Amber, look at Aunt Anna."

My son gazed up at Anna with pure adoration.

She ruffled his hair, planted a kiss on his forehead, and Ethan captured it all, his expression warm and indulgent.

They looked like a family.

A perfect, happy family.

I remembered last month when I'd asked Amber if we could take a photo together for his school project.

He rolled his eyes and muttered, "Do I have to? Mom, you're not like Lilian’s mom."

Lilian’s mom — the glamorous news anchor who looked like she belonged on a red carpet instead of the PTA. She was everything I wasn’t: elegant, accomplished, adored by all the parents.  

The café table was covered with treats — cupcakes, cookies, colorful macarons. Anna fed Amber a bite of something chocolate, and he giggled.

When was the last time my son laughed with me?

When was the last time Ethan had looked at me the way he was looking at them — like they were precious, worth his time, worth his smile?

My hands moved on their own, pulling up Ethan's contact, pressing call.

Through the café window, I watched him glance at his phone. I watched his expression shift from content to irritated and he swiped to decline the call.

The rejection was a physical blow.

I called again.

This time he answered, but he didn't look happy about it. He said something to Anna and Amber, then stood and walked toward the back of the café, phone pressed to his ear.

"What?" His voice was sharp, impatient. "I'm busy, Cynthia."

"I..." My voice cracked. "I need to talk to you. It's important."

"Everything is always important with you." I heard the eye roll in his tone. "Can this wait? I'm in the middle of something."

"No, it can't wait. Ethan, please, I went to the hospital today and…"

"The hospital, right. How did that go? Did they tell you that you're fine and just need to relax like I said?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Look, we'll talk about this later. Did you clean Anna's apartment like I asked?"

The question hit me like a slap.

"What?"

"Anna's apartment. I asked you to clean it this morning. Did you go?"

I looked through the window at Anna, laughing at something Amber said, looking so beautiful and carefree in her designer dress. Why do I always have to do things for her like some maid, while she eventually takes all of the glory?

"I... no. I was at the hospital, Ethan. I've been trying to tell you…"

"Cynthia, I don't have time for this right now." His voice hardened. "You need to go there this afternoon. And don't forget to make dinner for her afterward. She's been working so hard on the Bennett project, the least you can do is help out. She's family."

"Ethan…"

"I have to go. We'll talk when I get home."

The line went dead.

I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, staring at my husband as he walked back to the table. Anna said something, and he laughed, shaking his head. Probably telling her I was being dramatic again.

Amber pulled on Ethan's sleeve, showing him something on a tablet. Ethan sat back down, pulling his son onto his lap in a gesture so natural, so affectionate, it made my chest ache.

I should walk in there, push open that café door and confront them. I am dying and they are having a swell time?

I wish I had that boldness, I would just turn out to be a crazy, dramatic woman ruining their perfect afternoon.

***

"Where have you been!"

My mother-in-law's voice hit me before I'd even closed the front door.

"Do you have any idea what time it is? The dinner is tonight! Tonight, Cynthia! And you've been gone for…" she glanced at her diamond watch, "…over five hours without a single word!"

"I'm sorry, Mother. I had a doctor's appointment…"

"I don't care if you had an appointment with the Pope himself!" Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. "Don’t you remember Mr. Brown is coming tonight? He is one of the most important potential partners for Walker Industries! And you disappear all day like a selfish child?"

The headache that had briefly receded came roaring back. I pressed my fingers to my temple.

"Mother, I really wasn't feeling well. The doctor said…"

"Oh, enough with the excuses!" She waved her hand dismissively. "You're always 'not feeling well.' Always complaining about something. Do you think I don't see through your little act?"

"It's not an act. I'm actually sick…"

"Sick of what? Sick of having a beautiful home? Sick of having a husband who provides for you? Sick of having more than a orphan girl like you ever deserved?" Her eyes were cold, cruel. "You should be grateful, Cynthia. Grateful that my husband forced Ethan to marry you, because God knows no one else would have wanted you."

She was very good at talking down on me, she had a degree in that.

"Now stop wasting time and get to the kitchen."

"Mother, please. Can't we hire a caterer? Or …"

Her laugh was harsh. "Are you insane? Do you know how much Ethan has sacrificed to get this meeting? And you want to serve him catered food like we're some common family?"

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"No. You will cook. You will make it perfect. Because if you ruin this, if your mediocre food or your pathetic appearance tonight costs my son this deal, then you deserve to die. Do you understand me? You deserve to die."

The words should have shocked me but I'd heard variations of this speech so many times they'd lost their power.

"I understand," I whispered.

***

Beef Wellington was Mr. Brown's favorite, according to the notes my mother-in-law had left. I prepared the dough from scratch, my hands shaking as I rolled it out.

My head pounded every single second and twice, I had to stop and lean against the counter, breathing through waves of nausea.

But I couldn't afford to rest because if dinner wasn't perfect, it would be my fault.

By the time the doorbell rang at seven o'clock, the dining table was set beautifully and arranged with care while I looked like death.

I'd caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My skin was pale, dark circles under my eyes, hair limp despite my best efforts. The simple black dress I'd chosen hung off my frame; I'd lost weight without noticing.

The guests arrived in a wave of expensive cologne and practiced laughter. Mr. Brown was exactly what I expected in his early sixties. His wife was younger, decorative, wearing a practiced smile.

Ethan welcomed them as he guided him into the living room.

When he saw me, his smile froze. His eyes traveled from my face to my dress to my hair, and I saw disappointment and disgust in his looks.

"Cynthia." His voice was pleasant, but I heard the steel underneath. "Could you help me grab the wine from upstairs? I think I left the vintage Mr. Brown prefers in our room."

He followed me up the stairs and as soon as we were out of earshot, he turned on me.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

I flinched. "What?"

"Look at yourself!" He gestured at me, his voice a harsh whisper. "You look terrible. Don't you understand what tonight means?"

"Ethan, I've been cooking all afternoon. I'm tired…"

"Tired? Everyone gets tired, Cynthia. But they don't show up to important dinners looking like… like this!" His hand cut through the air. "You're my wife. You represent me and right now, you're embarrassing me in front of one of the most important potential partners Walker Industries has ever had."

The unfairness of it stole my breath.

"I've been trying to tell you all day that I'm sick…"

"Not now." His voice was flat, final. "Whatever personal drama you're manufacturing can wait. Right now, I need you to go fix yourself. Change your dress. Put on makeup. Do something with your hair. Make yourself presentable."

"Ethan…"

"Now, Cynthia." He was already turning away. "And smile when you come back down. I don't care if you have to fake it. Just don't ruin this for me."

He walked away, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.

I stood in the hallway, alone, and felt something inside me crack.