Chapter 2
Ethan scanned the spread of food with a frown before snapping his fingers at our waiter like he was hailing a cab.
“We need some plain bread and flat ginger ale,” he ordered without looking up. “And something bland–pasta with butter, nothing else. No garlic, no herbs.” He turned to Kate, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper everyone could still hear. “Her nausea hits right around dinner time. I’ve been tracking everything in
an app–certain foods are absolute no–gos.”
The tenderness in his voice made my stomach turn. Five years of marriage, and he’d never once shown that level of concern for me. Last winter when I had
bronchitis for three weeks, he complained about my coughing and slept at his brother’s apartment until I recovered.
Kate shifted uncomfortably when Ethan attempted to hand–feed her a piece of bread, turning her face away slightly. Her eyes darted around the table, landing briefly on mine before quickly looking away.
Patricia sat frozen in shock, her wineglass halfway to her lips, before setting it
down with deliberate care and standing up. “Ethan. Outside. Now.” Each word was clipped and precise.
Ethan’s smile vanished as he put down his fork with exaggerated slowness.
“Whatever you need to say can be said right here, Mother. We’re all family, aren’t we?” His laugh was hollow and mean.
His eyes swept around the table, lingering on me with an accusation I couldn’t quite decipher.
I felt his stare like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.my fingers found the heavy silver steak knife. I gripped it until the serrated edge bit into my palm. For one intoxicating moment, I imagined dragging the tip slowly across the back of Ethan’s hand as it caressed Kate’s stomach. I pictured the bright line of red appearing, his shocked expression, the horrified gasps around the table. The fantasy was so vivid I could almost taste the metallic tang of his blood in the air. I had to force myself to release the knife before I actually did it.
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02
“Mother, are you worried Liv might actually grow a spine tonight?” He smirked. “She’s never stood up for herself before. Why start on her birthday?”
My parents exchanged that pitying look I’d grown to hate–the same look they’d given me since the day of the accident, the look that said they knew I was trapped but couldn’t see a way out.
I knew Ethan had been waiting for this moment. He’d been searching for an exit
that wouldn’t make him the villain in our social circle. He needed me to end it so
he could play the victim.
For five years, I’d endured his growing contempt–the way he’d flinch when I
reached for him in bed, how he’d turn his face away when I tried to kiss him goodbye in the morning. The nights he’d come home drunk and call me by her name before passing out fully clothed on our bed.
I looked down at my lap, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. One tear would validate everything he believed about me that I was weak, pathetic, desperate to keep him.
“I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign,” I said quietly.
It was Patricia who had insisted on this birthday celebration, probably hoping some public event might somehow repair what had never been whole to begin
with.
Instead, she’d given Ethan the perfect stage for his final act of cruelty.
Patricia exhaled slowly, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “Olivia, don’t make any decisions tonight. This isn’t-”
But her touch felt like air, like someone trying to comfort a ghost. Nothing could penetrate the strange, liberating numbness spreading through me.
Ethan, clearly impatient to conclude his performance, pulled a folded document from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the tablecloth, knocking over a votive candle. Wax spilled across the linen like blood.
He grabbed my wrist–I flinched at the contact, the first time he’d touched me in weeks–and forced a pen between my fingers. His movement faltered when he
noticed.
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12:55 PM Mon 10 Mar
02
The back of my hand was raw and angry red, with five distinct crescent cuts where I’d been digging my nails in during the interminable wait, blood still beading in perfect half–moons.
Something flickered across his face–surprise, but no genuine concern–before he looked away. “Just sign it,” he muttered.
His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for me: “Just sign it. Then we’re both off the hook.”
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