Chapter 4 No.4

Alex Bennett POV:

The silence that followed my words was absolute. It was heavier and more suffocating than the humidity of a New York summer. Justin' s face was ashen, his mouth slightly agape. He looked like a man who had just been told the world was ending, and he'd forgotten his umbrella.

It was Carolina who broke the spell. A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek, and she let out a wounded gasp.

"How could you say that, Alex?" she whispered, her voice a masterclass in victimhood. "Are you trying to mock me? After everything that's happened tonight, you stand there and say these cruel, sarcastic things?"

She clutched her sons tighter, as if for protection. "I know you hate me. I know you think I'm trying to steal your life. But to hurt me like this... in front of my children..."

Bertram, ever his mother's puppet, reacted on cue. He disentangled himself from her and lunged forward, his face red and blotchy. "You made my mom cry!" he screamed.

The move was clumsy but startling. I stepped back quickly, my ankle, already twisted from a misstep on the stairs earlier, giving way beneath me. I cried out as a sharp, searing pain shot up my leg, and I crumpled to the ground, the world swimming for a moment in a grey haze.

For a moment, the world swam in a grey haze. The pain in my ankle was excruciating.

"She's faking it," Bertram said, his voice laced with the contempt he'd learned from his mother.

I saw Beckham take a half-step toward me, a flicker of concern in his eyes, but Carolina let out another delicate sob. He immediately turned back to her, his loyalty snapping back into place like a rubber band.

"Don't worry, Mom," he said, glaring at me on the floor. "We'll make her pay for this."

My heart, which I thought had been shattered into irreparable pieces long ago, felt another sharp, painful crack. I remembered a time, seven years ago, when Carolina had decided her career was more important than her children and had left for a European tour. Bertram, only eight at the time, had chased her car down the long driveway, his little legs pumping, screaming "Mommy, don't go!" He had tripped and fallen, scraping his knee bloody.

I was the one who ran after him. I was the one who scooped him up, held him while he sobbed, and carried him back to the house. He had clung to me, his small arms wrapped around my neck, and whispered, "You're my mom now, Alex."

I had believed him. I had believed that love and dedication could erase biology. I had believed my sincerity could earn his.

What a fool I had been.

Carolina's return six months ago, broke and with her career in tatters, had undone a decade of my life. All it took was a few crocodile tears and a well-rehearsed sob story about the "pressures of fame" and how she'd "never stopped loving her babies." Ten years of my patient, steady love evaporated overnight.

Justin suddenly moved, striding over and scooping me up from the ground. His touch was rough, impersonal. He carried me inside, past the gawking onlookers, and deposited me on a plush velvet sofa in a deserted sitting room.

"Stay here," he ordered, his voice tight with frustration. He returned a moment later with an ice pack wrapped in a linen napkin and pressed it against my swelling ankle.

"Honestly, Alex," he sighed, shaking his head. "Was that necessary? Your words can be so sharp. You know how sensitive Carolina is."

For a wild, insane second, I thought he was concerned about me. A tiny, stupid flicker of hope ignited in the ashes of my heart.

Then he continued. "You've sprained your ankle. How are you going to manage mingling for the rest of the party? The board members from the Peterson deal are here. I need you to be charming."

The flicker of hope died, smothered by the cold, hard truth. He didn't care that I was hurt. He cared that his asset was damaged.

"I'm not going back out there," I said, my voice flat. I was done being charming. I was done being his prop.

I thought of all the parties, the dinners, the fundraisers. All the times I had stood by his side, a perfect smile plastered on my face, while women whispered behind their hands about my "checkered past" and men looked at me with a leering familiarity, as if my former career gave them permission.

From the hallway, Carolina's voice drifted in, laced with feigned distress. "Justin? Is she alright? I feel so terrible. Maybe I should just leave. It's clear I'm not wanted here."

"Don't be ridiculous, Caro," Justin called back instantly. "You're not going anywhere."

Carolina continued, her voice rising just enough for me to hear clearly. "It's just... she makes it sound like I'm a bad mother. Like I abandoned my children. She doesn't understand the sacrifices I had to make. If I leave again, the boys will be devastated. They think I'm going to leave them again because of her."

The threat was clear. It was a masterful piece of emotional blackmail. The boys' deepest fear-abandonment-was now a weapon she wielded against me.

I heard their panicked cries. "Mom, no! Don't leave!"

"She's a monster! She's trying to drive you away!" Bertram shrieked. "Dad, make her leave! We want Mom!"

Justin reappeared in the doorway, his face a mask of fury. He didn't even look at me. He was too busy looking at his real family imploding.

"Just stay here and rest your ankle," he said, his voice clipped. "I'll handle this."

And as he turned to go comfort Carolina and his hysterical sons, I saw it in his eyes. A flicker of relief. Joy, even.

He was glad I was out of the way. He could finally have the night he wanted, with the woman he wanted.

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