Chapter 9
I don't know how long I was in the bathroom stall of the hockey arena. Time stretched and collapsed on itself, the buzz of fluorescent lights above me drilling into my head, intensifying the pressure building from getting sick. My thighs were starting to cramp from crouching. It felt like my cheek could have left an imprint against the cool metal wall where I’d leaned too long.
But eventually, I pulled myself together enough to stand.
I waited until I thought the bathroom was empty before I slipped out, praying for anonymity, for silence, for just a few seconds to breathe before facing Clara, Jackson, and all the ugly truths waiting for me outside these cinderblock walls.
But I wasn’t that lucky.
She was there.
Victoria.
Leaning casually against the sink, as if she’d been waiting just for me. The soft, composed look she’d worn when she was smiling at Clara was long gone. Now her face was sharp angles, her green eyes gleaming.
She looked at me like I was gum stuck to the bottom of her designer shoe.
The bathroom smelled faintly of disinfectant and floral spray, too sweet, too fake, almost nauseating. The noise of skates, kids, and whistles from the rink filtered faintly through the heavy door, distant but constant, like a reminder of the normal world I no longer felt a part of.
I kept my eyes down and went to the sink. My hands shook as I turned the tap, splashed water on my face, and on the back of my neck. Bent forward and swished water around my dry mouth. Anything to buy myself seconds, to keep my stomach from rebelling again.
When I stood up, droplets clinging to my skin, her reflection was already waiting in the mirror. Her eyes locked on mine.
"Well," she said coolly, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile, "I can see why he picked you. You are stunning. I have to say, though, you aren’t what he typically gravitates to. You’re probably the most beautiful, but he usually goes for trashy hookups."
Her words sliced clean and cruel. My brain lagged, busy trying to catch up with the reality that Andrew’s wife was standing in an arena bathroom, dissecting me. Us. Our affair.
Bile surged again, but I clamped it down. I would not throw up. Not here. Not in front of her.
And then another word caught. Usually.
Did she just say… usual hookups?
She wasn’t done.
"I mean," she went on lightly, as if commenting on the weather, "I guess even good families can produce trash every once in a while."
My head jerked toward her then. Heat climbed my throat. Did she just call me trash?
I tried to form words, my voice barely scraping out. "He… he said… you—"
My heart was racing so fast I could feel it in my fingertips, my pulse like a war drum in my throat. I was fighting not to break down again, not to collapse right here in front of her.
"He told you what?" she cut in smoothly. "That I’m mean, cruel… a monster?" Her tone was mocking, almost amused, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. "That my family holds all the cards for his life, and he’s stuck with the wicked witch?"
I couldn’t speak. I could only nod. Because what else was I supposed to say?
My tongue felt too big in my mouth. My body too small in this space.
She wasn’t taller than me, but God, she felt like she loomed.
Her presence filled every inch of air. Her sneer made me feel like the dirty secret I was terrified of being.
"Well, Cassidy," she said, tilting her head with false sweetness, "you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last. I am not done with Andrew or the life we built. So if you think him telling me it’s over and that he loves you will do a fucking thing…
" She leaned closer, her voice dropping, acidic. "You have something else coming."
Her words burned. Oh my God. Andrew had actually told her it was over. He’d said it out loud. To her face. What the fuck was happening right now?
I finally found my voice, though it trembled. "Why… why stay? If you don’t love each other… why stay? Why not move on and let each other be happy?"
She laughed then, sharp and cruel, the sound bouncing off the walls.
No humour. No warmth. Just derision. "Stupid girl. Marriage isn’t about love.
It’s about image. A statement. An arrangement.
And Andrew agreed to this. He said, ‘I do.’ Signed on the dotted line.
I will not give up the life I have built.
And Andrew may be talking a big game now, but he will get in line.
He will never walk away from my money. From his company. "
Her words hit harder than any slap could have.
They landed like truth carved in stone. My thoughts scrambled, clashing with everything Andrew had ever told me.
But something else came through loud and clear.
Not once did she mention their son. Not once did she talk about him as her partner, her husband. It was all contracts. Image. Power.
What the fuck was this marriage?
What the fuck had I been dragged into?
I needed to get away. To breathe. To put distance between me and her venom.
I took a step toward the door. But she moved. Cutting me off.
She planted herself in front of the exit, close enough that I could see the precise cut of her coat, the large diamond on her hand, the cruel glint in her green eyes.
She didn’t break eye contact as she stepped closer into my space. Her presence was suffocating.
Her hand rose. For one brief moment, I thought she might slap me. Instead, she touched me. Fingertips against my brow, pushing back stray strands of hair. The touch was deceptively gentle, but it made my skin crawl. She trailed down my cheek slowly, deliberately, then tucked my hair behind my ear.
"You really are exquisite, Cassidy," she murmured.
Her eyes flicked over my face, my skin, my eyes.
Appraising. Possessive. Almost hungry. "God, your skin, those eyes…
I can see what drew Andrew in. And your sister and family speak so fondly of you.
You have an incredible family. One that people look up to. "
Her voice hardened. "It would be a shame if public perception were to change about you and your family. How would that affect Clara’s café? Or your dad and brother being the town’s family doctors? Or what your mom does for all those charities?"
Ice flooded my veins. She wasn’t just threatening me. She was threatening my family.
Before I could respond, defend myself, defend them, her hand dropped lower, cupping my jaw with sudden force. Her fingers pressed hard, squeezing until my teeth clicked together.
Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Stay in your fucking lane, Cassidy."
And then she was gone.
The click of her heels echoed against the tile as the door swung shut behind her.
I stood frozen, pulse hammering, the ghost of her touch still burning on my skin.
I staggered toward the sink, gripping the counter with both hands, staring at my reflection. Pale. Shaken. Small.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fumbled for it with trembling hands.
Andrew. More texts. More pleas.
I ignored them and opened Clara’s instead.
Clara: You ok? Where are you?
Me: Yes… Sorry, I will meet you at the car.
I didn’t wait for her response. Another text from Andrew lit up the screen, but I couldn’t look at it. Couldn’t look at him.
I debated throwing the phone into the garbage, into the toilet, anywhere but with me.
Instead, I shoved it deep in my pocket and ran.
Out of the bathroom. Down the too-bright hall. Past the crowds and noise and lights that felt too loud, too sharp.
I ran like I could outrun her voice, her threat, the trap I’d stumbled into.
But I couldn’t. Not really.
Because her words weren’t just in my head, they were under my skin.
So I ran, and I didn’t know if I was running from her, from him, or from the version of me who’d believed this was love.