2
I’d just booked my flight to London when Damian came home.
He stumbled in, reeking of whiskey from some high–society gala. When I didn’t immediately rush to his side with a glass of water. and a worried expression, his face darkened with anger.
“Rachel! Where the hell are you? Are you just going to let me stand here?” It was the tone one used with a maid.
He wasn’t alone. Draped on his arm was Seraphina Winter. Trailing behind them, clutching her hand, was our son, Bruno.
I was supposed to have been his date tonight. In my last life, I had confronted him, my eyes red from crying. He’d just laughed, a
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cold, cruel sound. ““Rachel, look at you,“” he’d said. ““Everyone else brings a partner. You expect me to bring the help? Don’t embarr- ass me. You are the mother of my child, nothing more. Know your place.”
So this time, I ignored them, closing my laptop to head back to my room.
But Damian’s eyes caught the screen full of English text. He stepped in front of me, a flicker of something–hesitation? confusion? -in his eyes. “”What are you looking at? You think a country bumpkin like you can actually read that?“”
I didn’t have the energy to engage with his taunts. I tried to sidestep him.
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But Seraphina blocked my path, her smile as sweet as poison. ““Oh, Rachel, darling. I had to fend off so many people for Damian tonight. My head is just spinning. I’m dying for a slice of mango mille–feuille. Would you be a dear and make one for me?“”
In my last life, when Damian had me chained to a bed in that hospital, Seraphina came to “visit.“” She’d ground the heel of her stile- tto into the back of my hand, twisting it until the skin broke and bled. She’d watched me scream, helpless and bound, and then she d taken a scalpel and carved the word ‘TRASH‘ into my arm, her laughter echoing in the sterile room.
When Damian found the wound later, he’d merely commented that her taste was impeccable. A perfect description, he’d said.
Now, my eyes fixed on the ring on her finger–a perfect match to Damian’s. A piece of my heart, a shard I didn’t even know was left, shattered. “I’m allergic to mangoes,“” I said, my voice flat. ““Order it yourself.“”
Damian’s patience snapped. ““Don’t be difficult, Rachel!“” He grabbed my arm, his grip like steel, and shoved me. I stumbled backw- ard, my head cracking against the edge of a console table. Pain exploded behind my eyes. ““Seraphina asked you to do something, so you do it! She is the future Mrs. Blackwood! Have you forgotten you’re living on our charity? You should be grateful we even let a parasite like you stay here as a maid!“”
My head swam, but the ache in my heart was sharper.
Back in our small town, for my birthday one year, he’d bought me a mango cake, forgetting my allergy. I’d broken out in hives, my throat closing up. He had carried me in his arms, running for two hours to the nearest clinic, his face a mask of terror. Afterward,
he’d sworn he would never let another mango near me. If he did, he’d joked, he should be punished by never being allowed to marry
- me.
He was faking his amnesia now, but his vow had come true in the cruelest way. The music had stopped, and our story was over, His heart was full of Seraphina, and the six years of love we’d shared had evaporated into nothing.
A sharp, stabbing pain shot through my calf.
I looked down. It was Bruno. He was holding a fork, jabbing it into my leg, over and over.
““You’re a bad woman! You bullied my new mommy!“”
Beads of blood welled up, tracing red lines down my skin. Seeing my blood only seemed to excite him, and he dug the fork in deep- er. “I’m punishing you, you bad, bad woman!“”
Seraphina let out a delighted little laugh, praising Bruno for being her “brave, loyal little knight.“”
Damian watched, a faint, cruel smile playing on his lips as he observed my pain.
I had always held onto a fragile, desperate love for my son. Now, as he twisted that fork, that last piece of my heart disintegrated.
This was the child I had brought into the world in tiny clinic, without an epidural, after nine hours of agonizing labor. The same
child who, in another life, would kill me because he was ashamed of my origins. Now, he was hurting me for a woman who was
practically a stranger.
When they had finally vented their frustrations, the three of them went into the master bedroom together. A happy family.
I was left alone in the vast, cold living room, an outsider.
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Gritting my teeth against the pain, I limped to the bathroom, cleaned and bandaged my leg, and began to pack.
There wasn’t much to take. Just some clothes. That was the sum of my six years with Damian Blackwood.
