Chapter 2 - The Performance of a Lifetime
Ethan stood in the doorway,
his silhouette blocking the light from the hallway.
His shoulders were slumped,
but his face was set in that stubborn,
defensive mask I had grown to loathe over the last twenty-four hours.
"Mabel,"
he said,
his voice cracking slightly,
"we need to talk about your behavior downstairs."
I didn't look up from the folder in my lap.
I just traced the edge of the paper with my thumb,
feeling the sharpness of the cardstock.
"My behavior?"
I asked,
my voice a low,
dangerous whisper.
"You mean the way I stood still while your mistress threw a plate of eggs at the floor?"
Ethan stepped into the room,
closing the door behind him.
"She’s sensitive,
Mabel.
She’s been through a lot,
and she’s intimidated by you.
You didn't have to look at her with such...
hatred."
I finally looked up,
locking my gaze onto his.
I saw the man I had married,
but I also saw the coward he had become.
"I didn't look at her with hatred,
Ethan.
I looked at her with pity.
There’s a difference."
He scoffed,
running a hand through his hair,
a nervous habit he only did when he was lying or cornered.
"Pity?
She’s the one trying to make things right.
She wanted to cook for us,
to bridge the gap."
I stood up slowly,
holding the folder against my chest like a shield.
"Bridge the gap?
She’s the one who created the gap,
Ethan.
With your help,
of course."
I walked toward him,
each step measured and deliberate.
"Did you know she dropped the plate before I even got within three feet of her?
It was a performance.
And you,
the great CEO of Vance Global,
fell for it like a star-struck teenager."
Ethan’s face flushed a deep,
angry red.
"Don't talk down to me.
I’ve worked my soul away for three years to provide for this family."
"Which family?"
I countered,
my voice rising just enough to bite.
"The one in this house,
or the one in Ohio you’ve been subsidizing with our joint savings?"
He froze.
The air left the room in a single,
violent rush.
The arrogance in his eyes flickered,
replaced by a sudden,
sharp fear.
"What are you talking about?"
he stammered,
his voice losing its authority.
"I’m talking about the fifty thousand dollars you sent to Chloe’s brother in June.
I’m talking about the mortgage you paid off for her parents.
I’m talking about the fact that while I was clipping coupons to save for a 'future' that didn't exist,
you were building a kingdom for a girl who isn't even old enough to understand the value of a dollar."
I opened the folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper—a bank statement with his signature at the bottom.
I held it up between us.
"Is this your signature,
Ethan?
Or did Chloe learn how to forge that too?"
He reached for the paper,
but I pulled it back,
tucking it back into the folder.
"No,
don't touch it.
This is evidence now."
He looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time in years.
Maybe he was.
He had expected me to cry,
to beg,
May you like
to ask what I had done wrong.
He didn't expect me to be the one holding the gavel.
