Chapter 3: I won't forgive that

Rita stood on the balcony and tried to clear her mind.

She could not keep feeding the thought that Philip was in love with Blair. She would not compete for her husband’s attention against another woman. That path led nowhere useful.

“He was never mine to begin with,” she said under her breath. Her eyes stung. Tears pressed close but she held them back.

He was her husband on paper. That was the full measure of it. She had no right to feel jealous when another woman stood near him. That was what she told herself, over and over, as if repeating it might make it true.

Deep in her chest she knew the truth sat differently. She was in love with him. The feeling had grown quietly and refused to leave.

From where she stood she saw the front gate open. A dark, powerful car rolled up the drive. She knew the vehicle at once. Bianca.

Her mother-in-law stepped out with several heavy shopping bags hanging from her arms. The passenger door opened next. Sophia and Carol followed, each carrying their own bags. They looked as polished as always, heels sharp, sunglasses still in place.

Together the three of them walked toward the house.

Rita stepped back from the balcony railing. She moved quickly through the rooms so she could reach the front door before the bell rang.

She opened it with a wide smile already prepared.

“Welcome, Mrs Bianca. Sophia. Carol. To what do I owe this visit?”

Bianca looked her over from head to toe. She removed her sunglasses with deliberate care. “Do I need a reason to visit my son?”

“No. Not at all,” Rita said. “You are free to visit any day, any time.”

“We are not here for you,” Sophia said. Her voice stayed flat. “We are here to see Philip.”

“And my beautiful daughter-in-law,” Bianca added.

Rita’s smile stayed in place. For a brief second she thought Bianca meant her. Maybe the older woman had finally decided to see her as more than a problem.

Bianca chuckled and pushed past her, the shopping bags brushing against Rita’s side hard enough to make her step sideways.

“Of course it is not you,” Bianca said. “Where is my sweet pregnant Blair? Go call her for me. Tell her her more than capable mother-in-law is here.”

Rita caught the arm of a nearby chair to steady herself. The force of Bianca’s passage had nearly knocked her off balance.

“I will go call her,” she said. She reached for the bags in Bianca’s hands, meaning only to lighten the load.

Bianca’s voice rose sharp and loud. “You filthy gold digger. Do not touch my presents with those cursed fingers of yours.”

Rita blinked. The words landed with a cold, familiar sting. Disappointment settled heavy in her chest.

“I am sorry, Bianca. I only wanted to help.”

“You wanted to help so you could steal from them, is that it?” Bianca’s mouth curved.

Rita’s brows drew together. “Steal? No. I am not a thief.”

She could take many insults from the Armstrong family. She had taken them before. Being called a thief was different. That one she would not accept.

“So what are you saying?” Sophia asked, settling onto the couch beside her mother. “That you are not a thief? Directly or indirectly, are you saying you did not marry my brother for his money?”

“Or do you think we do not already know?” Bianca added. “You wretched gold digger.”

“I think that is enough,” Carol said. It was the first time she had spoken since they arrived.

Bianca and Sophia both turned to look at her as if she had said something strange.

“Are you taking her side now?” Bianca asked.

“I am not taking anyone’s side,” Carol answered. “I just think we should not start this the moment we walk in. We should let her breathe.”

“Let her breathe?” Bianca’s voice rose. “In my son’s house? I still do not understand why Philip has not divorced her. He has the inheritance now. Why keep the trash?”

Rita’s chest rose and fell. The truth sat between them, plain and ugly. Philip had married her because of the condition in his grandfather’s will. Without a wife he would have lost the majority of the assets to his uncle and cousins. She had always known that.

Still, the words cut.

“I will not have you come into this house and insult me as if I am not standing here,” Rita said.

Bianca rose from the couch. She stepped close until they stood nearly chest to chest.

“Oh? And what do you plan to do? Fight me?”

Rita lowered her gaze. “No. I cannot fight you, Mrs Bianca. With respect, you are the same age as my mother. I do not fight my mother, and I will not fight my elders.”

Bianca’s lip curled. “Do not dare compare me to that sack of potatoes you call a mother. You cannot fight her for failing to give you a better life because the poor thing is lying in a coma.”

The words struck deeper than anything else that had been said. Tears burned at the edges of Rita’s eyes. Of every insult Bianca had thrown, this one reached the most private place.

“Mrs Bianca.” Rita’s voice came out thinner than she wanted. She hated the break in it. She wanted to sound steady. She did not want to give the older woman the satisfaction of seeing the damage.

“I can tolerate a great deal. Call me names. Misjudge me. But do not mention my mother. I can forgive many things. I cannot forgive that.”

Bianca’s eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?” She lifted her hand, ready to strike.

Philip’s voice cut across the room.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Everyone turned. Philip stood on the stair landing, brows drawn together as he looked from his mother to Rita. Blair stood just behind him, eyes bright, watching as if the scene below were the most interesting thing she had seen all day.

“Philip, my son.” Bianca’s tone shifted at once, soft and wounded. “You will not believe what happened.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“Your wife has been insulting me since the moment I walked into this house. She refused to let me see you.”

Rita’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly. She had known Bianca could be sharp. She had not expected the lie to come so quickly or so cleanly.

Silence settled over the room.

Rita watched Philip’s face. Bianca watched it too, waiting.

Philip cleared his throat. “Rita. Is it true? Did you insult my mother?”

Rita held his gaze. She felt the weight of every eye in the room.

“What difference would it make to you if it was true or not?” she asked. She walked up the stairs until she stood level with him, close enough that their eyes met directly. “Or would you stand against your mother for me?”