Between duty and desire

Ultimatums

The silence in my bedroom was suffocating after Mrs. Romano’s call. I sat on the edge of the bed, phone still pressed against my palm, its screen dark yet burning with the weight of her voice. “We need to talk. Urgently.”

The words looped through my head, circling tighter and tighter until my chest felt like it would cave in. Did she know? Had Mrs. Ellis already whispered into the wrong ear? My heart raced so violently it left me nauseous, and for a moment, I wanted to run—away from this house, this city, this life I had chosen but no longer controlled.

I barely slept that night. Every creak of the estate, every shadow crossing the window made me jolt awake, certain someone was watching, judging. By dawn, I had given up on rest entirely.

The morning unfolded in a blur. I dressed mechanically, fixing my blouse, smoothing my skirt, but my hands shook as I buttoned the last pearl. Coffee went untouched; my appetite had fled along with my peace of mind. By the time the car pulled up to take me to the Romano estate—her estate—my throat was dry, and my heart hammered as if I were walking into a trial.

---

The Romano estate was more colder than mine, though no less grand. Everything about it—the polished marble, the heavy velvet curtains, the perfectly arranged portraits of ancestors—breathed wealth and authority. But today, it felt like a fortress, built to trap and judge me.

Mrs. Romano was waiting in the sitting room, perched on a high-backed chair like a queen awaiting her subject. She didn’t rise when I entered. Her sharp eyes, colder than the marble floors, skimmed over me with clinical disdain.

“Clara.” My name slipped from her lips like a verdict.

“Mother,” I replied softly, bowing my head in respect, though my fingers twisted the strap of my handbag so tightly my knuckles whitened.

“Sit.”

I obeyed, perching on the edge of the sofa opposite her, spine rigid. The silence stretched, long and deliberate, until it became unbearable.

Finally, she spoke. “Eight years.”

My brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

“You and my son have been married eight years,” she repeated slowly, like a teacher forcing a pupil to recite. “Eight long years, Clara. And what have you given him in that time?”

The words pierced like daggers. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Her voice sharpened. “Not an heir. Not a child. Not even the hope of one. Do you know what people are saying? That Jonathan married poorly. That you are barren. That you are unfit to be his wife.”

My throat burned as I forced myself to answer. “We’ve been trying. The doctors—”

“The doctors,” she cut in coldly. “Yes, I know about the doctors. About the prescriptions. Do you think secrets can be kept in families like ours? The Romano name is not something that hides behind pharmacy counters.”

My stomach dropped. My hands tightened in my lap.

Her eyes glinted, merciless. “You’ve been taking fertility drugs. My doctor told me—he saw your name. Do you know what that means, Clara? It means you are sick. A woman who cannot conceive without chemical help is sick.”

Tears pricked at my eyes, but I forced them back. If she saw me cry, she would take it as weakness, as confirmation of every accusation.

She leaned back, folding her manicured hands over her lap, her tone colder now, almost casual. “I’ll be blunt, Clara. Jonathan deserves better. If you cannot give him a child soon, then perhaps you should do the honorable thing and step aside. Divorce is cleaner than disgrace.”

The words rang in my ears, echoing like a gavel slamming down. Step aside. Divorce.

I shook my head quickly. “No… I love Jonathan. I won’t—”

“Love,” she sneered, her lips curling. “Do you think love matters in families like ours? Love doesn’t build legacies. Children do. Blood does.”

I sat frozen, every nerve screaming, my heart pounding. I wanted to defend myself, to tell her everything—that Jonathan was never home, that the intimacy she demanded of me was rare, that I swallowed pills and endured procedures while her son flew across continents for contracts. But the words caught in my throat, because beneath her accusations lay the truth: even with all my efforts, I had failed.

Her eyes narrowed, satisfaction flickering when I didn’t reply. “Good. You understand the gravity of this. I’ll give you time. But not much.”

She rose then, signaling the conversation was over. I sat there, trembling, until the butler escorted me back to the car.

---

The drive back to the estate blurred past me. The city lights smeared against the window like streaks of fire, but all I could hear was her voice: Sick. Divorce. Step aside. Disgrace.

When I returned home, the house felt emptier than ever. Jonathan’s absence pressed on me like a weight, but tonight it wasn’t loneliness that crushed me—it was fear. Fear of Mrs. Romano’s ultimatum. Fear of the secret kiss still burning on my lips. Fear of everything unraveling at once.

I poured myself a glass of wine, then another, until my hands steadied. I told myself to breathe, to think, to find control.

But as I reached for my phone to distract myself, the screen lit up with a new message.

No name. No number I recognized. Just one line that froze me where I sat:

“Does Jonathan know where you were Friday night?"

I frozed,

The glass slipped from my hand, shattering against the marble floor.

My chest constricted. My vision blurred.

Someone knew more than they should.

And they weren’t staying silent.