Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
"Are you alright, Amelia?"
"Yeah," I reply. "I was looking for you."
"I couldn’t sleep," she says. "So I came down for some tea while I wait for Max to return. Would you like to join me?”
“No, thank you.”
“And once again, I’m so sorry for what Jason did. I’ll speak to Max when he comes back and we’ll definitely find a way to get an expert to salvage it for you, or at least pay you."
I am disgusted by every single word coming out of her mouth, but I don’t bother responding to any of it.
"That’s not why I want to talk to you."
"Oh, okay," she says, curiously. "Shoot. What is it?”
Her voice is casual. And now I’m immensely annoyed. "It’s about Jason,” I begin, my hands fisted at my sides. “Why did you make him take the blame for the painting? He didn’t touch it—he told me he didn’t, and I believe him. So, if he told me that, then it means he would have told you the same thing. Why did you insist that he did and make him apologize? What’s going on?”
Chapter
Forty-Four
SARA
Amelia’s voice is sharp and accusing.
Why did I make him take the blame for the painting?
Apparently, the little weasel told her he didn’t do it.
Her eyes are fiercely contemptuous. I look at her face, the soft glow from the lantern outside highlights the defiance in her pretty jaw.
So… my dear son spilled everything, and now this bitch is standing here, daring to fucking challenge me in my own home.
After all she’s fucking done to wreck it.
My fingers tighten on the teacup, the porcelain fragile in my grip. My heart is like a furnace, burning with hatred. The heat surging through my veins feels like it is setting my skin ablaze.
I stare at her, my eyes narrowing, every muscle in my body taut with fury. She looks so innocent, so righteous, and it makes my blood boil. Should I keep pretending? I wonder. Should I keep playing the sweet, stupid but concerned wife, the doting mother, and brush this off like a misunderstanding? Or should I take my satisfaction now and reveal my true hand? Show her how powerful I really am.
The thought churns, sweet and tempting, but no. I will play dumb a little longer.
My mind races, weighing the mask I’ve worn for weeks against the rage clawing at my chest. I could deny it, smooth this over, keep her in the dark, but the effort feels like swallowing glass, sharp and tearing.
I force a brittle smile and lean back on the cushion of the wicker chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Amelia,” I say sweetly, my voice dripping with false calm. “Jason’s my son. You don’t need to concern yourself with him too much. Let it go. As for your painting, we’ll pay for it—replace the canvas, cover the cost of the paints, and your time, whatever you need. Does that resolve it all?” My voice is smooth like honey, but my words are designed to make her feel as small and insignificant as an insect. A little scurrying dung beetle, maybe.
I tilt my head, my eyes locked on hers, daring her to push further. I bring my cup up to my lips, intending to sip and dismiss her, to end this before it unravels me, but I note her stance—unyielding, her hands fisted at her sides. It tells me she won’t back down or budge from her high horse. Her eyes flash, her voice low and steady.
“I can’t let it go, Sara. I’m his aunt. This kind of behavior—making him lie, scaring him into it—it’s not okay. Max wouldn’t want Jason to be timid, afraid of his own mother.”
Her words strike deep, each one making me so mad that my hand trembles. She’s invoking Max, daring to speak for him. The audacity of it, the way she stands there like she owns this house, this family, makes my vision blur with rage. My temper flares, and it becomes a wildfire I can’t contain, and I’m done pretending, done wearing this mask for her.
I surge to my feet, the chair scraping against the tile, and fling the teacup at her. The porcelain curves through the air, tea spraying in a brown arc. Amelia ducks. Her reflexes are sharp. The cup shatters against the wall. The crash echoes in the conservatory’s glass enclosure. My hatred burns so hot it feels like it’ll consume me.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I snarl, stepping closer, my voice venomous, trembling with rage. “Running to Max, telling him all about his precious son and your pathetic painting, crying about how I’m the bad guy. Poisoning my husband against me. You fucking dirty whore. You’d really like that, wouldn’t you?”
Amelia’s face pales, her eyes wide with confusion, shock flickering across her features. She steps back, her hands trembling, her voice a shaky whisper. “What—what are you talking about? Why did you throw that cup at me?”