Chapter 2

Almeda Hughes POV:

I could hear them from my bedroom, their voices drifting up the grand staircase-a symphony of the happy family I was never a part of. Jacob' s excited shrieks, Helene' s saccharine laughter, and Hector' s low, rumbling responses.

Helene was a master. She cooed over Jacob, her voice dripping with maternal affection. "Oh, my sweet boy, let Helene get you a big piece. You've been so good today."

"Helene's cake is the best!" Jacob declared loudly, a clear jab meant for me. For six years, I had meticulously studied French patisserie, perfecting every dessert from macarons to soufflés, trying to find a way to his heart through his stomach. He had never once accepted a single bite from my hand.

"You're right, it is," Hector's voice affirmed, and that simple agreement felt like a fresh wound. "Almeda tries, but her cooking is...functional. It lacks warmth."

Lacks warmth. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I had spent countless hours crafting balanced, nutritious meals for a boy with a severe nut allergy, cross-referencing every ingredient, sterilizing my kitchen to prevent any contamination. I had stayed up all night with him when he had a fever, holding a cool cloth to his forehead because the sound of an ambulance siren-a sound he associated with his mother's death-sent him into a panic. That was my 'functional' love. That was my 'cold' care.

And now, Hector, my husband, was praising the woman who likely bought a store-made cake, simply because she looked like the wife he couldn't let go of. The absurdity of it was almost comical.

My packing was nearly done. One suitcase. It held the few personal belongings I'd brought with me into this house six years ago. The rest-the designer clothes, the jewelry Hector bought out of obligation-I was leaving behind. They were props for a role I was finished playing.

I heard Helene's voice again, closer this time, as they moved towards the dining room. "Hector, you must have a bite too. You've been working so hard."

A strange instinct, a morbid curiosity, pulled me to the door. I opened it a crack and peered down. Helene stood beside Hector, who was now seated at the head of the table. She held a fork with a small piece of cake, lifting it to his lips.

My breath caught in my throat. Hector, a man with such severe mysophobia that he' d never even shared a glass of water with me, leaned forward. He opened his mouth and accepted the cake directly from her fork.

The world tilted on its axis. In six years of marriage, he had never eaten anything I' d offered him from my own fork or spoon. He always insisted on separate utensils, separate plates, a sterile distance between us. I had once brushed a crumb from his lip, and he had flinched as if I' d struck him, retreating to the bathroom to wash his face immediately.

I had told myself it was just his nature. His grief. His quirks. I had made a thousand excuses for a thousand cuts.

But watching him now, accepting such an intimate gesture from her without a second thought, I saw the truth. It was never about his phobia. It was about me.

A cold, sharp clarity pierced through the fog of my exhaustion. The pain was so intense it felt like my heart was being physically carved out of my chest. But underneath the pain, a new feeling bloomed: relief.

This was it. There was nothing left to salvage, nothing left to misunderstand.

I was free.

"Almeda, darling, won't you join us?" Helene's voice called up the stairs, a mocking lilt in her tone. "There's plenty of cake."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

"Don't bother," Hector's voice was cold, dismissive. "She's probably sulking. She needs to learn that this family does not revolve around her moods."

"Daddy's right," Jacob chimed in. "She's a bad, grumpy lady. If you don't come down, Helene is going to be my new mommy forever!"

The rage that had been simmering for six years finally boiled over. It wasn't loud or explosive. It was a silent, lethal heat that coursed through my veins.

I walked back into the room, my movements calm and deliberate. I zipped up my suitcase.

Helene's sweet voice floated up again. "Oh, Almeda, don't be shy. Come and try a piece. Maybe you can learn a thing or two."

"She couldn't learn if she tried," Hector muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. "Now, eat up, Jacob."

Suddenly, there was a sharp clang from downstairs, followed by Helene's exaggerated gasp. "Oh! My bracelet! It must have fallen into the cake batter. It's a limited edition piece, Hector. It was a gift." Her voice was laced with faux distress.

I heard Hector's chair scrape back. "Almeda, get down here now and apologize to Helene. And then you will go out and buy her an identical one."

That was the final, ridiculous straw. An apology? For what? For existing in their perfect, delusional world?

A tremor of fury ran through me. I didn't go downstairs. Instead, I walked to my dressing table, picked up the jewelry box Hector had given me on our first anniversary, and walked to the window.

Below, the manicured garden stretched out towards the infinity pool. Without a second's hesitation, I opened the box and turned it upside down. Diamonds, pearls, and sapphires rained down, scattering like worthless pebbles onto the pristine lawn below.

Hector' s enraged shout echoed from the house. "ALMEDA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

I didn't look back. I just turned, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out of the room, leaving six years of glittering emptiness behind me.