Chapter 3
“I’m here.”
I wiped my face and stepped out, eyes puffy.
She froze, then cupped my cheeks. “What happened? Who upset my baby? Why are you crying? Talk to me.”
Same face. Same voice. But looking at her made me nauseous.
“It’s nothing, Mom. Probably ate something weird—my stomach’s off.”
I leaned into her shoulder, masking the hatred in my eyes. She stroked my hair like she still had the right.
***
We pulled up to the Benetton estate.
Chuck was already at the door, waiting like nothing had happened.
The same guy who’d had his hands all over someone else’s bump just two hours ago now pulled me in close, rubbing my stomach like he cared.
“Coraline said you weren’t feeling well,” he said softly. “I rushed home. Made pumpkin cream soup—it’s almost done. Eat a little, then rest.”
That’s when I noticed the apron.
If I hadn’t seen what I saw at the hospital, I might’ve believed it. That the guy fussing over me still loved me.
He’d even moved near the Adelson estate after our wedding—just to be close to them.
He called my name in his sleep.
But it was never me he loved.
It was Sharon. Always Sharon.
He married me for her. Lived a lie for her. Lied to me—for years.
Honestly? His acting deserved an award.
“Sebastian, Coraline,” he called out, “come join us for dinner.”
Chuck settled me on the couch, then disappeared into the kitchen.
My parents couldn’t stop gushing—how lucky I was to have a husband like him.
I stared at the painting on the wall. I’d always hated it. Could never figure out why Chuck insisted on hanging that ugly thing front and center.
But when my parents came in and made a beeline for it—eyes locked on the faint letter “S” tucked in the corner—I got it.
It wasn’t about the art. It was about the artist.
“Dinner’s ready.”
As the plates hit the table, it finally sank in—Chuck had never once cooked something I actually liked.
For six years, I told myself it was fine. He worked so hard, the least I could do was adjust.
But now? I wasn’t so sure. Maybe it wasn’t his taste at all.
Maybe it was Sharon’s.
“Yasmine, you okay?” Chuck asked, placing food on my plate.
I must’ve looked pale.
Mom looked at me, hesitant. Her voice was tight.
“Seeing you two so happy… it really puts us at ease. It’s just that…”
She didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. It was always Sharon—lurking in every good moment like a bad habit.
Back then, I’d just stay quiet. Guilt was my second skin. I was lucky they “picked” me over their real daughter.
Dad cut in. “We just hope she’s okay. She’s still our blood. Life in Nyamara must’ve been rough. If she’s alive, that’s enough.”
Then he turned to me. “Yasmine, don’t blame your mom. Sharon’s paid her dues. What’s done is done. Let it go.”
