Chapter 2

The walk home from the hospital was a slow, painful journey. Every step sent a dull throb through her lower body, a physical echo of the emptiness that had settled deep in her soul. The city lights blurred through her unshed tears.

When she finally pushed open the door to her apartment, the scene that greeted her felt like a final, cruel twist of the knife.

Mark was on the sofa, and Sarah was nestled beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. His arm was wrapped protectively around her as he murmured something soft and comforting into her hair. They looked like a perfect couple, a portrait of domestic bliss.

They didn't notice her at first. Ava stood in the doorway, a ghost in her own home, her heart a leaden weight in her chest.

Then Mark looked up. He didn't jump up or look guilty. He just looked annoyed, as if her presence were an intrusion.

"Ava," he said, his voice low. "You're back."

He slowly removed his arm from around Sarah, who sat up, a faint blush on her cheeks.

"We were just worried about you," Sarah said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Mark was so anxious."

"I was resting my eyes," Mark said quickly, a poor excuse that he didn't even seem to believe himself.

Ava didn't have the energy to argue. She felt numb, hollowed out. She just looked at them, at the space between them on the couch that screamed of intimacy.

"The doctor said it was just a stomach bug," she lied, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I'm fine."

She walked past them, heading for the small spare room she had started using as an office. It was cramped and dark, a tiny space that now felt like her only sanctuary. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the sight of them.

She sank onto the small chair, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the agony in her heart. She thought about the years she had poured into this marriage, the love she had given so freely, the future she had so desperately wanted. It all felt like a joke now. A pathetic, tragic joke, and she was the punchline.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Ava?" It was Mark. "Can I come in?"

She didn't answer. The door opened anyway. He stood there, looking uncertain.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words sounding rehearsed. "I was worried. I should have gone with you."

Ava almost laughed. He wasn't sorry. He was just going through the motions, saying the words he thought he was supposed to say. She could see through the act now, as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes.

"Sarah is making dinner," he said, his voice changing, becoming more practical. "She's not used to cooking for three. Could you maybe give her a hand?"

The request was so audacious, so completely tone-deaf, that for a moment, Ava was speechless. She had just come from the hospital after a medical procedure, and he was asking her to help his... his whatever-she-was, cook dinner.

"No," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I'm not feeling well. I'm going to rest."

Mark's face hardened instantly. The flimsy mask of concern fell away, revealing the familiar impatience beneath.

"Ava, don't be difficult. Sarah is a guest. She' s trying to help. The least you could do is be gracious."

Ava let out a short, bitter laugh. "Gracious? You want me to be gracious?"

"Yes," a soft voice said from the doorway. Sarah stood there, wiping her hands on an apron. "It's alright, Mark. I can manage. Ava is tired. I'll just make something simple for us."

She gave Ava a look of pity that made Ava's skin crawl.

Mark' s heart seemed to melt at the sight of her. "You see, Ava? That's what I'm talking about. Sarah is always thinking of others."

He walked over to Sarah, putting a hand on her back. "Don't you worry. I'll help you."

Ava watched as he followed Sarah back to the kitchen, his posture that of a devoted protector. She leaned her head back against the wall, the absurdity of it all washing over her.

She remembered how, when they were first married, Mark had been a terrible cook. She had patiently taught him, standing beside him at the stove, guiding his hands. He had learned for her. Now, he was using those skills to cook for another woman, in her kitchen, while she sat alone, nursing a broken heart and a wounded body.

She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her starve. She needed her strength. Not for this life, but for the one she was about to build, far away from here.

When the smell of food filled the apartment, she pushed herself up and walked out to the dining table. They were already eating, a cozy scene for two.

"Ava," Sarah said, feigning surprise. "I was just about to call you. I made your favorite, chicken soup."

Ava looked at the soup. It was thin and watery, nothing like the rich broth she made. She forced herself to sit, to pick up a spoon. She needed to eat, to recover. For her future. For her escape.

She ate in silence, mechanically spooning the bland soup into her mouth, blocking out their cheerful chatter. She watched as Mark placed a piece of chicken on Sarah's plate, as Sarah laughed and playfully swatted his arm. It was a performance of intimacy, and Ava was the unwilling audience.

After the meal, Mark stood up.

"Ava, can you handle the dishes? Sarah' s hands get rough so easily."

Ava stared at him. The plate in her hand trembled. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, she hurled it against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash, silencing their conversation.

"No," she said, her voice a low growl. "I will not."

She stood up and held out her own hands. They were red and chapped from cleaning, from work, from a life of taking care of things.

"Look at them, Mark. Have you ever once noticed?"

Sarah gasped, a perfect picture of shock. She quickly fumbled in her purse and pulled out a small, elegant tube.

"Oh, Ava, you poor thing. Here, use this. It's a wonderful hand cream Mark bought for me last week. It' s imported from France."

Ava' s eyes flickered from the cream to Mark' s face. He had the grace to look embarrassed. He had bought another woman expensive hand cream while his own wife' s hands were cracking and sore.

The knowledge didn't even hurt anymore. It was just another fact, another piece of evidence confirming what she already knew.

Sarah held out the tube, her smile a mixture of pity and triumph. "Go on, take it. Think of it as a gift."

Ava looked at the tube, then back at Sarah' s perfectly manicured hands. She took a step back, shaking her head.

"I don't want your charity," she said, her voice cold and clear.

She turned and walked back to her small, dark room, closing the door on the wreckage of her marriage.