All Chapters of Fifty-Fifty: Mr. Blake, This Is What Fair Looks Like: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Mason3:00 AM on a Saturday morning was when the absolute rock bottom finally hit me.I woke up to cold hands shaking my shoulder. I sat up, disoriented and half-blind in the dark room, to find Catherine standing beside my bed in her silk pajamas."Mara has a fever," she said, her voice even. "It’s 102.3."I blinked, rubbing my eyes. "What? What do you mean?""It’s your shift, Mason," she replied, stepping back. "The children's fever reducer is in the cabinet above the sink. Give her five milliliters, apply a cool compress to her forehead, and monitor her temperature every twenty minutes. If it hits 103, call me." She hissed, waving a finger. "Only if it hits that. Any less, and I'll kill you.""Catherine, wait—""I'm going back to sleep," she cut me off, turning toward the door. "Good luck."The door clicked shut. She actually left.I stumbled out of bed, my knees weak. It took over an hour of continuous squirming away from the cold washcloth and sniffled sobbing before her fever fin

CatherineSeeing Ethan and Mara laughing in the living room as Mason awkwardly tried to build a couch fort was a strange, unbelievable sight.A weight I had carried in my chest for six years finally began to loosen. He was actually doing it. He was stepping up, getting his hands dirty, and learning how to be a father instead of a manager with a checkbook.That Friday night, I stayed over at Sarah’s apartment. I had covered two double shifts for Mason earlier in the week when he had an unavoidable corporate emergency, which meant this entire weekend was off my schedule.We sat on Sarah’s plush balcony sofa, two glasses of red wine resting on the small glass table between us, watching the city lights flicker below."I honestly didn't think he had it in him," Sarah admitted, swirling the wine in her glass. "I gave him three weeks maximum before he handed you a blank check and begged you to go back to the old way."I smiled softly, taking a slow sip. "So did I. But he's really trying. The

Mason She stared back at me in disbelief. "What... did you just say?""I mean, you could have just kept your head down and let her be.” I explained. “She’s my mother after all. Show a little respect. You humiliated both of us in front of her.” She smiled. Then broke into loud laughter. I watched her body shake, not understanding what was funny. The Catherine I knew was one who was so careful and soft no matter what my mom said to her in the past. It had been worse when she was pregnant back then, and she would just turn away and wipe her face like the tears were something to be ashamed of. Now, she looked back at me like I was crazy. "Humiliate? I was the was who was humiliated! You brought your mother into our home, didn't have the decency to inform me beforehand, and stand there and say I should have shown some respect?" She scoffed. "Did you ever show my own mother any respect? Putting aside the fact that you just watched her slap me! What?" She leaned towards me. "Was I supp

Mason The amber whiskey swirled in my crystal glass, catching the low, warm amber light of the executive lounge at The Vault. It was a Thursday evening—my off-duty night. By all accounts, I should have been relaxing, celebrating the closing of the Euro-Zone routing deal. Instead, every sip tasted like ash. My father’s words from two days ago kept hammering in my head. He hadn't raised his voice or pounded the desk like my mother. He had simply sat in his leather armchair, looking at me with a heavy, quiet disappointment that cut deeper than any blade. "In business, Mason, a contract that forces one partner to bear all the risk while the other collects all the dividends isn't a strategy," my father had said, his deep voice echoic and cold. "It's exploitation. And any businessman stupid enough to build a partnership like that deserves to lose it when the other side wakes up." He had leaned forward then, his gray eyes piercing right through me. "Look at her, Mason. She isn't the b

Mason I stood outside her bedroom door at midnight, my fist hovering an inch from the dark wood. I wanted to knock. I wanted to drag her out into the hallway, look her in the eyes, and ask her everything. Why didn't you defend yourself? How did you survive six years of my cold, calculated accusations without screaming in my face? How did you carry all of it alone? My hand trembled in the dim hallway light. I couldn't do it. I was terrified. Catherine was so distant these days, moving through the house like a cool breeze that touched nothing and belonged to no one. If I confronted her now with this sudden, pathetic late-night revelation, she would only look at me with that calm, hollow pity she had given me in the kitchen. She wouldn't yell. She wouldn't cry. She would just close the door in my face. I pulled my hand back, turned around, and walked into my study. If I couldn't ask her, I would read every line of her life myself. First thing Monday morning, I pulled up Catherine