Chapter 3

A few weeks later, Mark insisted we attend his company's annual family picnic. He framed it as a chance to present a united front, to show everyone that the rumors were just rumors. For Lily's sake, I agreed. The hope he had planted with his promises was a tiny, fragile thing, but it was there.

The picnic was held at a sprawling country club, a sea of green lawns and polite smiles. We had just laid out our blanket when I saw them. Scarlett and Daisy, walking towards us as if they owned the place.

Scarlett was dressed in a striking white sundress, a stark contrast to my simple jeans and t-shirt. She moved with the practiced grace of an influencer who knows she's always on camera.

"Mark, darling!" she called out, her voice a little too loud. "I didn't know you were here!"

She came to a stop in front of our blanket, her eyes scanning over me with a dismissive glance before landing on Mark. "And this must be Ava. It's so lovely to finally meet you. Mark has told me so little about you."

The dig was subtle but sharp. I forced a tight-lipped smile. "He's a man of few words."

Scarlett's smile widened. "Oh, not always. He used to write me the most beautiful poems. In French, of course. So much more romantic than English, don't you think?" She turned to Daisy. "Sweetie, why don't you go say hi to Lily?"

Before Lily could react, Daisy, holding the same expensive doll from the video call, plopped down next to her.

"My daddy and my mommy used to go to Paris," Daisy announced to Lily, her voice carrying. "He said he would take me there one day, to the top of the Eiffel Tower, where he first kissed my mommy."

I froze. My heart felt like a block of ice in my chest. I looked at Mark, whose face had gone pale. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

Just then, Mark seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. He knelt down, but not to comfort Lily. He knelt in front of Daisy.

"Bonjour, ma petite puce," he said to her, his voice full of a warmth and affection I hadn't heard in years. "How is my little flea?"

He spoke to her entirely in French, a rapid, intimate stream of words. Daisy giggled and responded in equally fluent French, the two of them creating a bubble of exclusion around them.

Lily stared at them, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Mommy, what are they saying?" she whispered, tugging on my sleeve. She felt the shift, the sudden wall that had gone up between her and her father. She felt his preference as a physical coldness.

My blood ran cold. He had never spoken French to Lily. He had never called her a sweet pet name.

Scarlett watched the scene with a smug, triumphant look on her face. She leaned towards Mark, adding her own comments in French, their conversation flowing effortlessly, leaving me and my daughter on the outside, looking in. They were a family. We were the intruders.

Anger, sharp and clean, cut through my pain. They thought I was just a simple artist, easily sidelined, easily intimidated. They didn't know that my mother was French. They didn't know I had spent every summer of my childhood in Lyon.

I waited for a pause in their merry chatter. Then, in flawless, unaccented French, I spoke.

"It is incredibly rude to speak in a language you assume others don't understand, Scarlett. Especially when you are telling your daughter to boast about things a married man supposedly did with you."

The effect was instantaneous. Scarlett's jaw dropped. Mark stared at me, his face a mask of disbelief and horror.

I wasn't finished. I kept my voice calm and level, but my French was precise and cutting.

"And Mark, teaching your mistress's daughter a language you've never bothered to share with your own child? That is a new level of cruelty, even for you."

I turned my gaze to Scarlett. "Telling your child that Mark is her 'daddy' when you know he has a family? That's not just pathetic, it's manipulative. You're using your child as a weapon."

Scarlett, flustered and exposed, stammered, "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

Before I could reply, Mark found his voice. But it wasn't directed at Scarlett. It was directed at me. And at Lily.

"Ava, stop it!" he hissed in English. "You're making a scene!" He then looked down at Lily, who had started to cry from the tension. "And Lily, for God's sake, stop crying. It's embarrassing."

That was it. The last thread of hope I had been clinging to snapped. He didn't defend me. He didn't deny Scarlett's claims. He defended his mistress and blamed his five-year-old daughter for being upset.

I stood up, my movements sharp and decisive. I picked up our blanket, shaking the grass from it with a violent snap.

"Come on, Lily," I said, my voice steady. I would not let them see me break. "We're leaving."

I took Lily's hand, and without another glance at Mark or his carefully constructed other family, I walked away. The sounds of the picnic, the laughter and music, faded behind us. All I could hear was the sound of my own footsteps on the grass, carrying me and my daughter away from a man who was no longer our husband or our father. He had made his choice. Now, I was making mine.

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