Chapter 13 #2
Lara watched us, and I suddenly understood what wounded her most of all: even in the wreckage between Damien and me there was still a connection. Crooked, bloodied, dangerous, almost hateful—but alive. She had nothing. Not even a fragment. She'd come to steal a home and gotten a spot by the exit.
"You'll always win," she said.
"I'm standing in front of a sister who slept with my husband and a husband who let her destroy me. If this is winning, Lara, I'm terrified of your losses."
She pulled a small velvet pouch from her pocket. I recognized it instantly. The bracelet with the garnet stone. My gift. Her trophy. My foolish love, tied up in a dark cloth.
"Take it," she said.
"No."
"It's yours."
"I gave it to a sister. I don't have a sister anymore."
Her hand trembled.
"Then I'll throw it away."
"Do it yourself. For once, do the dirty work with your own hands."
She squeezed the pouch so hard her knuckles went white.
"I went to Mom yesterday. I didn't know where else to go."
My temples began to pound.
"She said right now you can't handle extra stress."
I laughed. No—it wasn't a laugh. It was a broken sound, ripped from my chest.
"Extra stress."
"She said the first thing to do was for me to leave. So there wouldn't be a scandal."
"A scandal."
The word settled on my tongue like a rotten coin. The affair—a mistake. The betrayal—she got confused. A sister in her husband's bed—a scandal. How conveniently grown women could rename meat if it needed to be tucked under the family napkin.
"She felt sorry for you," I said.
"No."
"She did. Because you're the strong one, right? You'll manage on your own? And I'm the quiet, domestic one, who can be spared the truth so she doesn't crumble in an ugly way on the family carpet."
Damien behind me said hoarsely:
"Niki, sit down."
"Don't give me orders."
"It's not an order. You're white."
Lara stared at me in horror.
Damien stepped toward me.
"Niki."
I raised my palm.
"Don't touch."
He stopped immediately. His hands clenched into fists.
"I won't."
"And don't rescue me."
"I can't watch you being cut."
"Learn. You gave them the knife."
He paled but didn't drop his gaze.
"Yes. And now I'll stand here, even if you repeat that every day."
"You'll stand?"
"I will. Angry, guilty, uncomfortable—but I will.
And if I were doing this my old way, I'd have security carry her out and I'd drive to your mother and speak so she'd remember every word.
But that would be my power again instead of your choice.
So I'm standing here and burning. Enjoy the moment—it's rare. "
I looked at him and hated that even now something responded inside. Not forgiving. Not melting. Just hearing. The way a broken bone hears rain.
"Lara, go," I said.
She flinched.
"Niki..."
"I don't wish you death. I don't wish you misery. I won't write you curses or track your life. Go. Buy new dresses. See a therapist. Fix yourself, if you can. But don't come back to me."
"Never?"
"Not while my pain is still alive. And it, Lara, is very much alive."
"I love you."
It hit me harder than her confession about the traces. Love. How easily people pull out that word after they've turned you to ash. As if love were a fire exit from any atrocity.
"No," I said. "You love the place where you wanted to stand instead of me. That's not the same thing."
Lara nodded. Slowly. Then walked to the door. At the exit she paused beside Damien, as if she wanted to say something final, leave a splinter, prove she hadn't been an empty episode.
He didn't even turn his head.
"Go," he said.
One word. Not lazy. Not soft. Final.
Lara left.
The door closed quietly.
Liberation didn't happen. The world simply shrank by one sister.
I stood in the middle of the winter garden and realized I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. Damien took off his jacket, stepped forward, stopped, and held it out to me at arm's length.
"Take it."
I looked at the jacket. At his hand. At the man who was my husband, my pain, my mistake, my weakness, and the only person in the room who right now was not calling my hell a family scandal.
"I don't want your clothes."
"Then don't take them."
"Tomorrow you'll drive me to my mother's."
His face changed instantly. The old Damien surged back: cold, dangerous, ready to break down doors and people.
"I'll go with you."
"You'll drive. You won't come in."
"Niki."
"I'm not asking."
He looked at me for a long time. I could almost see the two people fighting inside him: one wanted to decide everything for me, the other had already understood that doing exactly that would be the final blow.
"I'll drive you," he said at last. "I'll stay in the car. If you call, I'll come in."
I closed my eyes. I didn't have the strength even to talk.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
Mom.
I stared at the name and didn't answer. The call broke off, started again. Then a voicemail came. I didn't want to listen. Honestly. But my finger pressed on its own, as if inside me there still lived that Niki who always answered when Mom called.
My mother's voice was quiet, nervous, irritably affectionate:
"Niki, please, don't do anything right now. Lara's flying out, Damien's with you, the children are little. You were always the sensible girl. Don't destroy the family to spite your sister."
The message ended.
I deleted it.
Then I looked at Damien.
"Tomorrow," I said in a calm, frighteningly alien voice, "you'll drive me to my mother's."
He raised his eyes.
"I will."
And for the first time it didn't sound like a concession.
It sounded like the beginning of a war in which I was no longer going to be the good girl.