Chapter 2

Joline Wright POV:

The night settled over New York like a shroud, but the Aguilar mansion was ablaze with light, a beacon of wealth and power in the heart of the city. I returned to the place I had once called home, the weight of my diagnosis pressing down on me with every step. The grand entryway felt alien, the opulent decor a mockery of the turmoil raging inside me.

In the cavernous living room, Ambrose was on the floor, playing with a set of intricate building blocks with Katharine' s teenage son, Leo. The scene was sickeningly domestic. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings, a sound that felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves.

Katharine, reclining on a velvet chaise lounge like a queen on her throne, gestured languidly with one hand. "Cara, be a dear and fetch Leo a glass of juice. He' s been playing for hours."

I froze. The casual command, the assumption of my servitude, sent a jolt of anger through my exhaustion.

Ambrose looked up, his brow furrowing in annoyance at my hesitation. "Did you not hear her? Go on."

The coldness in his voice was a familiar sting. I remembered a time when he would have fetched the juice himself, then brought me a glass too, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. That man was gone, replaced by this cold, obsessive stranger.

Swallowing the bitter retort on my tongue, I turned and walked to the kitchen, my movements stiff. I poured the juice, my hands trembling slightly, and carried it back to the living room. Leo took it without a word of thanks, his eyes glued to the elaborate structure he and Ambrose were building.

"I' m tired," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I' m going to go up to my room."

"You used to call this our home," Ambrose noted, his voice flat, his eyes never leaving the toy blocks. He was stacking them with the same intense focus he applied to multi-billion dollar acquisitions.

Before I could respond, a small cry of pain cut through the room. Katharine had shifted on the chaise, and a decorative porcelain bird had fallen from the side table, its sharp, broken wing grazing her arm.

"Mom!" Leo shouted, dropping his blocks and rushing to her side.

Ambrose was there in an instant, his face a mask of concern. "Katharine, are you hurt?"

As Leo scrambled to help his mother, he shoved past me carelessly. The unexpected force sent me stumbling backward. My foot caught on the edge of the plush Persian rug, and I went down hard.

My hand flew out to break my fall, but it landed directly on another piece of the shattered porcelain bird. A sharp, searing pain shot up my arm as the shard sliced deep into my palm.

"For God' s sake, Cara!" Ambrose' s voice was a whip crack of fury. "Can you not cause trouble for one evening? Look what you' ve done!"

I stared at him, bewildered. I had done?

Katharine was already putting on a masterful performance, her eyes wide with fake tears as she clutched her arm, where a tiny scratch was beginning to well with a single drop of blood. "It' s alright, Ambrose. I' m fine. It was an accident." Her voice was a fragile whisper, designed to elicit maximum sympathy.

"I' m taking you to the hospital," Ambrose declared, ignoring her protests. He shot me a look of pure disgust. "Stay here and clean up this mess you made."

He swept her into his arms, Leo trailing anxiously behind them, and they were gone.

I was left alone in the vast, silent room, blood dripping from my hand onto the pristine white rug. I slowly pushed myself up, my body aching, and went to the bathroom to clean the wound myself. The gash was deep, angry, and bleeding profusely. As I wrapped it clumsily with gauze, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes hollow.

I remembered a promise Ambrose had made to me years ago, after I' d scraped my knee falling off a bike he was teaching me to ride. He had cleaned the wound with such gentle care, his touch feather-light. "I' ll always be here to protect you, Cara," he had whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "I' ll never let anything hurt you."

The memory was a cruel joke. The man who had promised to protect me was now the source of my deepest pain.

The next morning, the butler, Mr. Thompson, informed me that Mr. Aguilar had called. A flurry of activity followed. Maids arrived in my room carrying boxes from designers whose names I only knew from magazines. They laid out a breathtaking gown of emerald silk, accompanied by a set of diamond and emerald jewelry.

A wave of nausea washed over me. This felt like a payoff, a guilt offering.

"I don' t want it," I said, my voice hoarse. "Please take it away."

Just then, my phone rang. It was Ambrose. His voice was softer than it had been in months, tinged with something that sounded almost like remorse.

"Cara," he said. "Katharine told me what happened. She doesn' t blame you. She knows it was an accident."

My heart, stupid and stubborn, gave a little flutter of hope. Was this an apology?

"She insisted I invite you to the welcome banquet we' re holding for her tonight. She wants everyone to know there are no hard feelings."

The hope died as quickly as it had been born. Of course. It wasn' t about me. It was about Katharine' s magnanimous public image.

A bitter smile touched my lips. "I see."

"Wear the green dress," he commanded, his tone shifting back to business. "It will suit you."

The line went dead. I stared at the dress, a beautiful, empty shell. Just like me.

The banquet hall was a sea of glittering chandeliers and champagne flutes. I felt like a ghost haunting the edges of a party I didn't belong to. The dress, a size too large, hung awkwardly on my thinning frame. I sat in a secluded corner, nursing a glass of water, trying to become invisible. Whispers and mocking glances followed me like a shadow.

Across the room, Ambrose and Katharine were the center of attention. He stood beside her, his hand on the small of her back, his eyes filled with an adoration that was a physical pain to witness. He was a king, and she was his queen.

Katharine' s eyes scanned the room and found me in my corner. A slow, deliberate smile spread across her face. She whispered something to Ambrose, and then, to my horror, she started walking towards me.

"Cara, darling," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Why are you hiding over here?"

I stood up reluctantly, the movement sending a sharp pain through my injured leg. She took my hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and pulled me towards the main table where a decadent dessert buffet was laid out.

"I wanted to thank you properly," she said, her voice loud enough for those nearby to hear. "For being with Ambrose all these years. He told me how much you looked after him." She picked up a small, exquisitely decorated slice of mango mousse cake. "I had the chef make this especially for you. I heard it' s your favorite."

My blood ran cold.

Mangoes.

I was deathly allergic to mangoes. A fact Ambrose knew better than anyone. One bite would send me into anaphylactic shock.

I looked at him, my eyes pleading. He had to remember. He was the one who had rushed me to the emergency room when I was eighteen after accidentally eating a fruit salad that contained a single piece of mango. He had held my hand the entire time, his face pale with fear, and had made the entire household staff memorize my list of allergies afterward.

For a fleeting second, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes-hesitation, a glimmer of memory.

But then Katharine pouted, her lower lip trembling. "Oh, dear. You don' t like it? I tried so hard to pick something special."

Her voice was a soft, wounded murmur, but it was enough. Ambrose' s face hardened, his brief moment of uncertainty vanishing.

"Cara," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Katharine went to a lot of trouble. Eat it."

The command was absolute. In his eyes, I was no longer the girl he needed to protect. I was an obstacle, an embarrassment, a nuisance who was upsetting the woman he truly loved.

My heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. The last vestiges of my hope turned to ash.

I lowered my gaze, my eyelashes wet. My hand trembled as I reached for the fork. If this was what he wanted, if this was the price of my love, then so be it.

Just as I was about to lift the cake to my lips, a small blur of motion caught my eye.

"Mommy, my earring!" Leo, Katharine' s son, came running towards us, his face scrunched in distress. "I can only find one!"