Chapter 4: You are selfish

Philip’s lashes fluttered once, then again, as if the motion alone might buy him a few more seconds of silence. Rita’s question still hung in the air between them, soft but pointed, and he had no clean answer for it. To side with his mother would place him against the woman who shared his name. To ignore Bianca’s rising voice would look like open disrespect. He stood on the last stair a moment longer, the weight of the choice pressing against his ribs, before he finally drew a slow breath and spoke.

“Let us put this aside,” he said. His tone was even, almost weary. “I do not have the patience for it tonight.”

Bianca’s mouth fell open. The shock on her face was almost theatrical. “Really?”

Philip finished the descent and lowered himself onto the nearest sofa. The leather sighed under his weight. Blair settled beside him without invitation, her shoulder brushing his as though the space belonged to her by right. He did not pull away.

“Let it go, Mother,” he said again, quieter this time.

Bianca’s voice sharpened at once. “You mean you will sit there and watch that woman insult your own mother and do nothing?”

Philip pressed two fingers to his temples and closed his eyes for a brief second. “We all know how respectful Rita is. She would never twist your words on purpose.”

Rita heard the defense and felt something cold settle in her chest. Respectful. Or simply convenient. She had always known why he had chosen her. Calm. Tolerant. Easy to keep. The kind of wife who would not make scenes. The knowledge tasted bitter now.

Sophia opened her mouth, the first syllable of a protest already forming, but Philip’s voice cut across it without raised volume.

“There is no discussion. If you cannot keep quiet, I will have you shown out.”

Sophia’s jaw went slack. Her eyes widened until the whites showed clearly. She looked as if she had never heard her brother speak to her that way in her life. Rita watched the exchange from the edge of the room and felt a small, private smile touch her mouth before she could stop it. He had defended her. In front of them. Even if the rest of his family had never offered her the same courtesy.

Bianca recovered first. Her tone shifted into something almost syrupy as she turned toward Blair. “Come sit closer, darling. I want to feel my grandchild.”

Blair rose with a soft, pleased smile and crossed the room. The gift bags waited on the low table. Bianca drew one toward her and began to speak of the things she had bought, the little clothes, the soft blankets, the things a woman buys when she has decided the child already belongs to her bloodline. Blair made soft sounds of appreciation. She called Bianca “Mother” as if the word had always been hers to use. Bianca answered with equal warmth, calling her beautiful daughter-in-law and promising she would do anything to keep her happy.

Rita could not stay. The warmth in the room was not for her and never had been. She turned and walked toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. A feeling she refused to name rose in her throat like something sour. In all the years she had carried Philip’s name, she had never been given that kind of open affection from his family. She closed the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, eyes shut, before she forced herself to move.

She needed something to do with her hands and her mind. She opened her laptop and tried to lose herself in the pages of her medical texts. Human anatomy. First aid. The clean diagrams and careful language usually steadied her. For a short while it worked. Then the knock came.

She closed the laptop at once, rose, and opened the door.

Sophia stood there chewing gum, her expression flat with dislike. “Blair is hungry. Go make her something to eat.”

“We have staff for that,” Rita answered.

Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Blair asked for you specifically. Stop wasting time.”

Rita felt the refusal rise and swallowed it. The old habit of endurance was still stronger than the newer anger. “I will be downstairs in a minute.”

Sophia gave a small, satisfied nod and walked away without another word.

Rita’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She whispered the familiar words under her breath. Endure. It will not last forever. They will leave eventually. Then she forced her fingers open and went downstairs.

The living room had softened into something almost festive. Wine glasses sat in most hands. Laughter moved easily between Bianca, Sophia,Carol and Blair. Only Blair’s glass held juice. The moment Rita stepped into view, Blair’s face brightened with practiced sweetness.

“There you are. Thank you for coming down.”

Rita kept her voice even. “What would you like?”

“Mashed potatoes. Grilled lamb. Grilled vegetables. And a glass of juice. Some sauce as well.” Blair tilted her head. “Please do not make it spicy.”

Rita nodded once and turned toward the kitchen.

She worked carefully. She measured. She tasted. She plated the food with the quiet precision she had always brought to tasks that were expected of her. When she carried the tray to the dining table, Blair’s reaction was immediate. She covered her nose with the back of her hand and made a soft, distressed sound.

“What is that smell?” She coughed once. “Did you put too much garlic?”

Rita’s brow drew together. “I did not add garlic.”

Blair pressed a hand to her chest. “Please take it away. I feel as if I might be sick.”

Bianca’s voice cracked across the room like a whip. “What are you waiting for? Remove that poison before you harm my grandchild.”

Rita lifted the tray again. Her hands had begun to tremble. She could not decide whether the rejection came from pregnancy or from something more deliberate. As she turned back toward the kitchen, Blair’s voice followed her.

“Make something else. A simple porridge. Something gentle.”

Rita stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Did I hear you correctly?”

Bianca answered before Blair could. “You are not hard of hearing. Go and prepare another meal.”

An ugly crease formed between Rita’s brows. The refusal sat ready on her tongue. Before she could speak it, Philip’s voice came from the sofa where he had remained quiet the entire time.

“Please, Rita. She is our guest. Treat her well.”

Guest. The word landed like a small slap. Rita let out a short, bitter breath and walked back into the kitchen without answering.

This time she worked faster. She hoped the simpler dish would pass whatever test Blair’s body or temper had set. When she returned with the bowl, Blair looked at it once and her face crumpled.

“My baby wants something different,” she said, and the tears that followed looked almost convincing.

Something inside Rita finally gave way.

She set the bowl down with careful control and spoke in a voice that stayed low even as the heat rose behind her eyes. “I have had enough of this, Blair. You do not walk into my home and order me about as if I am hired help.”

The room went still. Every face turned toward her with the same stunned expression. The woman who never raised her voice had just used it.

Rita continued, the words coming faster now. “If your pregnancy is making you this difficult, take your complaints to the man who put the child in you. Do not bring them into someone else’s marriage.”

Bianca surged to her feet, one hand already lifting as if to strike. Blair caught her wrist before the blow could land. "Please don't hit her."

Rita looked at all of them, the anger no longer hidden. “I am finished with the tantrums. All of them.” She pushed Blair’s hand aside with more force than necessary and walked out of the room.

Philip followed her into the hallway and then into the bedroom. He closed the door harder than he needed to.

“What was that?” he demanded.

Rita turned to face him, arms crossed tight over her chest. “What?”

“The way you spoke to my family. In front of me.”

“And what of the way they spoke to me first?”

Philip’s jaw tightened. “That was nothing. Blair is pregnant. She is delicate.”

Rita gave a short, humorless laugh. “Delicate. So that excuses everything?”

“You are being selfish,” he said, the words rough. “You even brought my late brother into it. How could you?”

Rita ignored the accusation. Her voice stayed level. “When is she leaving?”

“Who?”

“Blair.”

Philip drew a long breath. When he answered, the words were quiet and final.

“She is not leaving. You are.”

Rita’s brow furrowed. The room seemed to tilt for a second. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her for a long moment, as if measuring the cost of what he was about to say. Then he spoke the sentence that ended the last of her hope.

“I want a divorce.”