Chapter 4

I pulled my hand free. The question struck me as almost absurd.

There was a time I couldn't stop texting him. Fifty messages a day, easily a hundred. Our whole chat history was a wall of green — all from me.

Messages he'd answer when he felt like it and ignore when he didn't.

And now he had the nerve to ask why I hadn't texted.

I let out a short, flat laugh. "Didn't you tell me to stop bothering you unless it was important?"

He went quiet. A little guilty.

He had said that. He just hadn't expected me to actually listen. And now that I had, something about it didn't sit right with him — though he couldn't say what.

"That's different..."

Wendy slipped her arm through his and cut through the moment.

"Ethan, Jess just got back. She's probably not in the best mood. Don't pile on with all the questions."

"I made food. Jess, come eat something."

She turned toward the kitchen, picking up a piece of fabric from the counter and bunching it in her fist to use as a pot holder.

The fabric unfolded at one corner, and I recognized it instantly.

It was my mother's embroidery.

My eyes went wide. I crossed the room in three steps and yanked it out of her hands.

The tug made Wendy lose her grip on the pot. Hot soup splashed across her hands.

She let out a sharp cry. Her eyes welled up immediately, tears spilling over.

"Jess, even if you don't want my food, you didn't have to do that."

"I've already apologized for everything. Why won't you just let it go?"

Ethan rushed to her side and cradled her reddened hands in his, his voice low and worried.

"Does it hurt?"

Wendy leaned into him and kept crying.

"I don't understand why she keeps treating me like this. My hands are just good for cooking — I'm not some pampered heiress like her. But that doesn't mean I deserve to be humiliated."

He soothed her in low tones. Then he turned to me, and the warmth in his face disappeared.

"Jess, have you lost your mind? Are you trying to seriously hurt her?"

I didn't answer him. I was looking at the embroidery in my hands.

It was ruined. Stained through with grease, the fabric fraying in pieces. There was no fixing it.

I made myself breathe. Steadied myself.

Then I held it out flat in front of Ethan, my voice not quite steady.

"Do you remember what this is?"

He glanced at it. His tone was impatient.

"It's an old piece of needlework. You seriously hurt Wendy over that?"

I laughed, and it came out cold.

He'd forgotten.

This was the last piece my mother ever embroidered before she passed. Two swans. Her final blessing for our marriage.

She had held my hand at the end and said:

"Jess, Ethan is a good man. I can see how much he loves you."

"After I'm gone, he'll take care of you. I can rest easy knowing that."

After she died, my family fell apart. My father ran off with his girlfriend in the middle of the night, taking everything with him.

I was alone. An orphan with nothing.

Ethan was the one who took my hand and walked me out of that cold, empty house.

He said, "Don't be scared, Jess. You still have me. I'll give you a home."

What we had back then was so vivid, so warm — that I couldn't let go even as it rotted away around me.

But now, the two swans had been torn apart. Split by damage that couldn't be undone.

He and I had finally reached the end of the road.

"Are you just going to stand there? Apologize to Wendy."

The embroidery was ripped from my hands. I came back to the present.

I looked at the mess on the floor. Then at Wendy, still performing her tears beside him.

Her hands were barely pink.

The soup had been warm, not scalding.

I met his eyes. My voice was flat.

"Why should I apologize?"

"She's been the other woman in this marriage for years. Has she ever once apologized to me?"

"And you — you've been cheating on me with someone who worked in our home. Have you apologized?"

"Or is this where you tell me that if I don't say sorry, you'll have me arrested again? Go ahead. How long this time?"

The directness of it stopped him cold. Even Wendy forgot to cry for a moment.