Chapter 1 #3
I stared at her and felt cold spreading under my skin. She wasn't speaking like an enemy. Enemies are easier to disbelieve. She spoke like an older sister who knew life better than you and was very tired of pulling you out of your own stupidity.
"Do you think he's seeing someone?" escaped me in almost no sound. Lara blinked. For a second. Then sighed.
"I think you have a husband other women would give half their lives for. And you walk around looking like he owes you happiness."
Shame hit me. Instantly. To the point of nausea. This was her talent: I'd asked a question, and somehow I was the one found guilty.
"I didn't mean—"
"Then don't start," Lara said softly. "And fix your bracelet.
It slipped again." She left, and I stood there with wet eyes, ice-cold hands, and the feeling of having been carefully taken apart, each piece labeled, and proven: every malfunction was mine.
I turned on the faucet and held my wrists under the stream.
Breathe, Niki. Just breathe. Your husband is home, the children are healthy, guests are laughing.
What more do you need? A minute later, the door opened.
Damien walked in alone and closed it behind him.
"What did you say to Lara?"
I slowly turned off the water. There it was. Not "what did she say to you." Not "why are you so pale." Not "Niki, what happened." Only this. What did you say to Lara.
"Nothing."
"She came out upset."
"She didn't look upset."
"You've been bad at reading people lately."
I smirked and immediately recoiled from my own boldness.
"But I'm good at reading myself. I'm hurting, Damien."
"From what exactly? The bracelet?"
He said it quietly, almost lazily. And I felt the ground beneath my feet turn thin, papery.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Pretend you don't understand."
He stepped closer. Not abruptly—Damien rarely did anything abruptly. His power lay in the fact that he could move slowly and the space around him would still retreat.
"Niki, all evening you've been walking around with the face of a victim. Lara said a few awkward things, I made a comment about the dress, and you've already buried the family in front of everyone."
"I haven't buried anything."
"Then smile."
"I'm tired of smiling when I want to cry."
"Then cry later. Today is your son's birthday. Don't confuse your insecurities with motherhood."
The blow landed so hard I couldn't inhale right away. This was Damien. Not crude, not hysterical, not some drunk throwing cheap insults. Smart. Precise. He didn't call me a bad mother. He simply placed my tears next to Tim, and I sank into guilt all on my own.
"You're good at that," I whispered.
"At what?"
"Making it hurt in a way that looks like I fell on my own."
Something flickered in his eyes. Irritation. Perhaps exhaustion. Perhaps a tiny shard of shame, which he immediately crushed beneath his heel.
"I'm not going to spend the evening dissecting your self-esteem.
Pull yourself together." He raised his hand and wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
The gesture was almost tender. Almost affectionate.
Almost the one that once would have made me close my eyes and press my lips to his palm. But he said:
"Your mascara's running again."
And everything tender died. From behind the door, Tim shouted:
"Mom! Dad! Come cut the cake!" Damien stepped back first. The mask was back. Father. Master of the house. A man who had everything under control.
"Let's go. And don't ruin his day."
I nodded, because I no longer had the strength to argue.
We returned to the living room together.
Like the perfect family. I smiled at the guests, cut the cake, kissed Tim on the top of his head and whispered: "Happy birthday, my sweet boy.
" He looked at me and suddenly squeezed my hand under the table.
Hard. The way children hold on to adults when they're scared.
I nearly broke down right there, between the candles and other people's congratulations.
Damien sat across from us, Marta on his lap feeding him frosting with a spoon, and he was smiling at her—a real smile.
Lara stood nearby, laughing at something one of the guests had said.
Her red dress flashed beside my husband's dark jacket—pretty, festive, perfectly innocent.
And I watched them and pleaded with myself not to be the sick, stupid, suspicious woman who invents enemies where family members simply wish her well.
Then Damien stood to answer a call. His phone screen lit up on the table before he could grab it.
I didn't want to look. I truly didn't. My eyes just fell on their own.
On the screen there was no name. Just a short message from an unknown number: "She almost figured it out today.
Don't be so cruel to her in front of me.
" Damien covered the phone with his palm and looked at me.
Calmly. Very calmly. And inside me, where just a minute ago a heart had been beating, it went empty and terrifyingly quiet.