Chapter 2 2

Mark's firm refusal put an end to the surrogacy discussion, at least for that evening.

Brenda retreated into a wounded silence, her disapproval a heavy blanket over the rest of the disastrous dinner.

The air in the Thompson house remained thick with unspoken resentments and grief.

Sarah felt drained, but a small part of her was relieved. Mark had drawn a line.

Jess remained a ghost throughout the meal, picking at her food, her eyes vacant.

Sarah tried to speak to her afterward, a quiet, "Jess, I'm so sorry for everything."

Jess just looked through her, her face pale and unresponsive.

It was like talking to a beautifully tragic doll.

The helplessness Sarah felt was profound.

Later that week, Mark told Sarah his mother had given him the silent treatment for days.

"She'll come around," he said, pulling Sarah close. "She's just hurting."

He kissed Sarah's forehead. "I meant what I said, Sarah. No one is forcing you to do anything. Ever. I'm sorry you were put in that position."

His reassurance was a balm to her frayed nerves.

She believed him. She had to.

He was the steady, loving partner she had always believed him to be.

But as the days turned into another week, Sarah noticed subtle shifts in Mark.

He was quieter, more withdrawn.

He spent longer hours at the brewery, coming home late, smelling of hops and a weariness that went beyond physical work.

There were hushed phone calls he'd take in the other room, his voice low and tense.

When she asked, he'd say it was brewery business, supply chain issues, the stress of managing things without David.

Sarah tried to be understanding. He was grieving his twin, his business partner. The brewery's future dynamic was indeed uncertain.

She told herself the changes were due to stress, to the immense pressure he was under.

She rationalized his distance, his occasional irritability.

But a small, cold seed of unease began to sprout in her heart.

She pushed it down, telling herself she was being paranoid, overly sensitive after the trauma of David's death and Brenda's shocking proposal.

A few weeks after the awful dinner, Jess was still staying in the guest room at their house.

Brenda had insisted, saying Jess shouldn't be alone, and Mark, ever the dutiful son to a point, had agreed it was temporary.

Sarah found Jess's presence a constant, uncomfortable reminder of everything.

One night, Sarah couldn't sleep. The house was too quiet, too full of unspoken things.

She got out of bed, careful not to wake Mark, though he seemed to be sleeping deeply, unusually so.

She walked down the hallway, intending to get a glass of water.

As she passed the guest room, she heard sounds.

Hushed voices. A low murmur.

Her first thought was for Jess. Was she having a nightmare? Crying?

Sarah paused, concern pricking her.

She crept closer, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor.

The guest room door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light escaping into the dark hallway.

Sarah's heart began to thump, a slow, heavy dread spreading through her.

She told herself she was being foolish.

She leaned forward, just an inch, to peek through the gap.

The scene that met her eyes burned itself into her brain.

Jess was in Mark's arms.

Not a comforting embrace. Not sibling-in-law support.

It was intimate. His hands were tangled in Jess's hair, her face upturned to his.

They were kissing, a deep, passionate kiss that spoke of familiarity, of habit.

Sarah's breath hitched. Her blood ran cold.

This wasn't new. This wasn't a moment of shared grief gone wrong.

This was established. This was a betrayal so profound it stole the air from her lungs.

Sarah's body went rigid. Shock, icy and sharp, coursed through her.

She pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp, a sob, any sound that would betray her presence.

Tears welled, hot and instant, blurring her vision of the sickening tableau.

Mark. Her Mark. With Jess. Her sister.

The man who had so vehemently defended her against the surrogacy.

His noble stance, his protective words – all a lie. A performance.

"Oh, Mark," Jess murmured, her voice husky as they broke apart, "I wish... I wish it didn't have to be like this. If David hadn't..."

"Shh," Mark said, his voice thick. "Don't. We can't think about that now."

"But I want your baby, Mark," Jess whispered, a desperate, clinging sound. "Openly. Not... not David's ghost."

The words were like daggers.

Their united front against Brenda's proposal wasn't for Sarah's sake. It was for theirs.

They didn't want David's child. Jess wanted Mark's.

Sarah stumbled back, her legs like water.

The world tilted, spun, then crashed down around her.

Every promise Mark had ever made, every loving gesture, every moment of perceived trust – all of it replayed in her mind, now tainted, twisted into a grotesque mockery.

She had been a fool. A blind, trusting fool.

His defense of her hadn't been about her autonomy; it had been about his affair.

He didn't want her body used for another man's child, not even his dead brother's, because he was already sharing it, in secret, with her sister.

The "moment of weakness" he would later claim it to be. It was months. Their hushed conversation revealed months of deceit. David's death had just intensified it.

Sarah retreated to her bedroom, her movements stiff, mechanical.

The sounds from the guest room, the soft murmurs, the occasional sigh, followed her, seeping under her door, into her mind, tormenting her.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming silently down her face, soaking her pillow.

Sleep was impossible. Each tick of the clock was an eternity of agony.

The betrayal was a living thing, coiling in her stomach, squeezing her heart.

Sometime before dawn, the sounds from the guest room ceased.

She heard the soft creak of the guest room door, then footsteps, then the almost silent click of her own bedroom door as Mark slipped back into their bed.

He thought she was asleep. He settled beside her, his breathing even, feigning slumber.

The hypocrisy was suffocating.

The next morning, Sarah looked at her reflection.

Her eyes were swollen, her face pale. She looked broken.

But beneath the shock and the grief, a new feeling began to stir.

A cold, hard knot of rage.

She wouldn't crumble. She wouldn't be the victim they clearly thought she was.

She showered, dressed, and went to her laptop.

She typed: "Divorce lawyer, [her town], Pennsylvania."

Then she typed a message to Mark's phone, which lay on his bedside table:

"We need to talk. When you wake up. Don't go to the brewery."

She wouldn't cry anymore. Not in front of him.

She would get her answers. And then she would get her revenge.

Mark woke up an hour later, stretching, yawning.

He reached for her, a customary morning cuddle.

Sarah flinched away, moving to the edge of the bed.

His hand paused in mid-air. He looked at her, his brow furrowed. "Sarah? You okay?"

"No, Mark," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I'm not okay."

She stood up, walked to her dresser, and picked up a single sheet of paper she'd printed.

It was a blank separation agreement template she'd found online.

"I want a divorce," she said, holding it out to him.

Mark stared at the paper, then at her, his face a mask of confusion. "What? Divorce? Sarah, what are you talking about? Is this about my mother? About the surrogacy thing again? I told you, I handled that."

His denial, his attempt to feign ignorance, fueled her cold anger.

"Where were you last night, Mark?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

He blinked. "What do you mean? I was here. In bed. With you." A little too quick, a little too defensive.

A bitter laugh escaped Sarah's lips. "Really? All night?"

She saw the flicker of panic in his eyes before he could mask it.

"Because I was awake, Mark. I heard you. I saw you."

His face went pale. The denial drained away, replaced by a dawning horror.

"I saw you with Jess."

The charade was over. His composure shattered. He knew he was caught.