FATED MEETING
1286 Words
CHAPTER 2: FATED MEETING
SLAP.
The sound cracked through the air like a whip.
Mary Jane’s face whipped to the side under the force of her father’s hand, her cheek burning red-hot. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. Her expression remained a porcelain mask—still, hollow, and heartbreakingly numb.
She had long since learned that tears only made them hit harder.
“It was a simple damn request, and you still managed to screw it up!” her father bellowed, face red with fury, veins twitching at his temples. “You’ve been married to Ignacio Rosewood for months now, and you still come back empty-handed? Are you that useless?”
His scowl deepened with each word, voice soaked in disappointment.
“If you have to kneel, then kneel! If you have to beg, then beg! Seduce him, we don’t care. That’s your job now—be a wife worth her price!”
Mary Jane said nothing. She simply stood.
“Yes, Pa,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
But just as she turned to leave, a hand clamped around her wrist—cold, bony, familiar.
Her mother.
“Understand your father, Jane,” her mother said with feigned softness. “After all, you owe us everything. Without us, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”
Mary Jane nearly choked on her own breath. The bile rose in her throat. Owe? She owed them nothing but scars.
She longed to scream, to shout, to tear herself away—but instead, she stood motionless, a perfect puppet painted in sorrow.
All they ever wanted was Ignacio’s money.
‘Beg him. Seduce him. Crawl if you have to.’
Their words echoed in her skull like a curse. They didn’t care if she was dying inside. All that mattered was what they could gain.
Ignacio Rosewood. Her husband. Her tormentor. The man who carved her into a hollow shell and called it marriage.
“I’ll try, Ma,” she said, tasting iron behind her lips.
Moments later, she was in the backseat of a cab, her tears trailing silently down her cheeks like rainfall on glass.
“Where to, Ma’am?” the driver asked.
“Rosewood residence, please.”
No use crying now. That luxury had long been stripped away.
When she arrived home, silence greeted her like a cold ghost.
No mother-in-law. No sister. Just the yawning emptiness of a mansion that had never once felt like home.
Mary Jane sank to the edge of the bed she shared with Ignacio—the same bed where love had never dared to sleep.
She wouldn’t seduce him.
But she could do what they wanted. She could pretend.
She wiped her cheeks. Raquel—the old version of her—would’ve broken down. But Mary Jane? She had learned to cry without a sound.
Then, the door creaked open.
Ignacio.
His presence darkened the room. His face twisted in annoyance the moment he saw her.
“What now?”
She opened her mouth to speak—but stopped.
Because she saw Loren, hanging off his arm like a prized accessory, her smirk venomous and victorious.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the charity case,” Loren sneered. “Still here? You’re like gum stuck under the table.”
Mary Jane’s nails dug into her palms.
“Just say what you came here for,” Ignacio said coldly. “You need money, right?”
Shame welled up in her chest, but she swallowed it.
“Yes.”
Loren scoffed. “You’re really giving her money?”
“Relax, baby,” Ignacio cooed, brushing a hand along Loren’s hip. “I’ll handle it.”
Their affection made her stomach twist.
But she grit her teeth and held her tongue. This was survival.
“Fine,” Ignacio sneered. “Here’s your damn money. But remember—nothing’s free, b***h. Everything comes with a price.”
He tossed her a blank check like tossing scraps to a beggar, and then left, dragging Loren behind him.
The moment the door shut, Mary Jane collapsed to the floor. Real tears, silent and choking, slid down her cheeks as she scrawled an amount onto the check—just enough to keep her parents away for a while. Not enough to anger him.
Her father’s face lit up like a winning gambler when she handed him the check.
“You’re finally of use,” he grinned. “Now go. Your husband might come looking.”
“Yes,” she said, forcing her lips into a smile. “I need to get back.”
“Take care of him,” he called after her. “And don’t forget—give him whatever he wants. Be his good little wife.”
His sugary tone was laced with poison. As if he hadn’t slapped her just hours before.
“Jane,” her mother called softly.
She turned back, dreading what was to come.
“I think it’s my turn to ask now,” her mother cooed. “I saw some lovely things at your house last week. Why don’t you sell a few and get me the bag I’ve been wanting? I’m sure Ignacio wouldn’t mind.”
Her fingers clenched as her mother’s nails dug into her arm—her way of reminding her what would happen if she dared say no.
“I’ll try, Ma,” she said, numb.
“Oh, you’re such a good girl!” her mother beamed, mask of affection firmly in place.
Outside, Mary Jane could finally breathe. Barely. Her soul was tired, her shoulders heavy with the weight of every unspoken cry. If only they knew Ignacio never saw her as a wife.
He adored Loren.
Mary Jane?
She was the stain he could never scrub out.
She didn’t love him. She hated him. Hated all of them. That slow, burning loathing ate at her from the inside out.
And then—
A car pulled up beside her.
Startled, she turned—only to freeze.
“Mary Jane?”
Her breath caught.
That voice. That familiar timbre wrapped in honey and smoke.
Dimitri.
“I knew it was you,” he said, stepping out of the car, his face lighting up.
He looked at her like she mattered. Like he remembered.
But she… she was terrified.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharper than intended.
His smile faltered. “Did I scare you?”
“No. Yes—I mean…” she shook her head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Can I drive you home? Just… let me take you back.”
“No.” The word fell from her lips like a slap of its own.
This wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not now. Not when she was barely holding herself together.
Dimitri looked stunned. The hope drained from his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
He turned back to his car.
“Take care of yourself, Ms. Fonte—”
“It’s Mrs. Rosewood,” she said flatly.
He froze.
“Oh…”
For a second, he stood there, speechless. Then he gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Mrs…” he repeated, as if the word tasted foreign on his tongue.
And then he walked away.
Mary Jane stood rooted to the spot, watching him go.
And as his silhouette disappeared down the road, the mask she wore cracked.
Her lips quivered. Her shoulders shook.
Tears streamed freely as she whispered the name she had buried deep in her heart, the name she once tasted with longing and fire—
“Dimitri…”
- Writer
