Tear to wither away

Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Anne’s Breaking Point

One evening, Anne followed Vincent to a hotel downtown, her hands trembling on the steering wheel of her old Honda. She’d seen the address in his calendar—*The Meridian, 7 p.m.*—marked innocuously as “client dinner.” She parked across the street, heart pounding so loud she could hear it over the radio. Through the lobby window, illuminated by chandeliers, she saw him embrace Aria. Not a handshake, not a polite hug—an embrace, his hands low on her back, her face buried in his neck. Anne’s world tilted. She drove home in tears, running a red light, crashing into a mailbox on Elm Street. The airbag deployed with a powdery hiss; her forehead throbbed where it hit the wheel.

Liam rushed over, finding her slumped on the couch, ice pack pressed to her head, blood trickling from a cut on her hand. “What the hell happened?” he demanded, grabbing the first-aid kit. Between sobs, she told him everything. “You deserve better, sis,” he said fiercely, bandaging her hand with gentle precision. “He’s a coward.” Anne nodded, but inside, she felt trapped, like a bird beating wings against a window. At work, Clara suggested therapy. “Couples counseling saved my sister’s marriage.” Anne dismissed it, pouring her pain into a series of dark, stormy paintings—black oceans, lightning-split skies, figures dissolving into shadow. Mr. Patel hung one in the front window. It sold in a day.