The Fathers of My Child?

#Dorothy’s POV#

“I have cancer…”

My breathing steadies even though the sight of his narrowed eyes makes me nervous.

The words hang there, sharp and strange and foreign even to my own ears. The silence that follows is too loud—too thick to breathe in.

“What?” he says and pushes himself off his seat, taking just two steps to reach my radius. The tie dangling loosely from his strong neck is the only thing that distracts me momentarily and gives me the relief to say the next sentence.

“That’s what the doctor said… and… and…” my words falter, and so do my legs. My knees weaken, pulling me faster than gravity to the floor as I collapse. I’m unable to bear the news in my heart or resonate with it, talkless of me telling it to my wayward husband who’s been sleeping out since we got married two years ago and has not noticed his wife's slow health decline.

The marble floor underneath me is cold. I don’t even try to hold myself up anymore. The weight on my chest is heavier than my bones.

I stare up at him, and watch as several emotions run through his face. He wants to punch something, somebody. I can already feel his anger simmering underneath his olive skin, threatening to destroy something, or anybody.

Thank God. I have never been the one to bear the brunt of his anger but I have borne the brunt of another side of his untamed desire.

That’s the thing about Joel—he doesn’t know how to love gently. Only forcefully. Only transactionally. Only on his terms.

A force jolts me out of my train of thoughts and I feel my body shaking. “The doctor said what, woman?! Spit it out!” His hands are wrapped around my arms, and he’s shaking me.

My head jerks from the motion. My teeth clack together. It stings.

“What the fuck can I say, Joel? What the fuck do you want me to say?!” I bark out on his face and he flinches back, as if avoiding my spit from touching him.

He grunts and throws a piece of vase on the table behind him at the wall behind me. When I hear the glass shatter, I flinch.

My heart feels like it shatters too.

“Haven’t I told you to stop answering me as if I’m the cause of all your problems?! Was it my fault your father was a drunkard who gambled all your generational wealth away? Was it my fault your mother and sister sold you to my father for a new Lamborghini? Is it my fault your entire family are selfish fools who only want to live the ‘high life’ without actually having a sensible mindset?” He grabs my hand, “Look, you know very well we made a verbal agreement before we exchanged rings AND vows. You do your shit and I do mine.”

His fingers are squeezing my hand, not in affection. In warning.

I want to slap him. I want to scream and scream until his ears bleed. But I just stare. Numb.

“You don’t love me, do you?”

“Why the fuck are you mentioning love? What the fuck does this have to do with love?”

I sniff. “Why don’t you meet one of those your whores to get you an heir? At this point I don’t even know why the hell I’m still bound to you and your family.”

“You know very fucking well why, Dora. Stop… Urgh… stop making me speak so much to you. You know anytime we exchange more than three sentences it turns into an argument and I get turned on and you push me away and call me a—”

“Sick bastard.” I grit my teeth.

He chuckles darkly. “Haha. And then I force you and you fucking cry and threaten to kill me in your sleep.”

My stomach turns. He says it like a joke. Like we’re not both standing knee-deep in rot.

“I hate you…”

“Darling, I hate you too but we’re bound to each other, are we not? You know very well my useless ass of a father specifically wrote in his will that if the heir doesn’t come from your fucking vagina, those multi BILLION worth of assets aren’t going to be officially given to me. How many fucking times do I have to explain this to you? When you do what we’ve agreed you’ll do, you’ll get your share and you can jump off a fucking cliff with your cheque in your hand for all I care. But for now, just fucking cooperate! Geez!”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out for a second. Then—

“So now I have cancer, how am I gonna cooperate, unh? My womb is fucking useless now.”

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. Then—just like that—he slips back into control. That cold, strategizing mask he wears like an extra layer of skin.

“No, not if I can help it. Pack your bags. We’re going to New Jersey first thing tomorrow to see a specialist.”

I blink. “What? But—”

“What is it now? At least you got diagnosed early. It’s treatable, isn’t it?”

“I….”

I shake my head. My chest tightens. It’s not that simple. It’s never been that simple.

“Oh… don’t fucking tell me you willingly want to sabotage this shit for me? You wanna die of cancer, Dora?”

“That’s not what I said!”

“Good. Don’t say anything more. Pack your fucking bags.”

“But Joel…”

“I’ll come pick you up tomorrow by 7. I’m going to Hillary’s.”

And just like that, he grabs his car keys, slides on that ridiculous designer blazer, and leaves me there on the floor.

The front door slams.

One of his stupid side chicks.

Of course.

The silence afterward is louder than anything he could’ve shouted.