Chapter 4
731 Words
The so-called reconciliation dinner was set at a private club.
The room was full of Lawrence and Nora's friends.
It felt less like making peace.
It felt more like putting me on trial.
I had lost too much blood.
My face was paler than the wall.
Nora sat beside Lawrence, all smiles.
Dean played on his game console.
He looked lively and full of energy.
There was not a hint of injury on him.
Lawrence tapped the table and called for silence.
"This dinner is to clear up a misunderstanding," he said calmly.
"Sierra, give Nora a toast. Then we'll put this behind us."
All eyes turned to me.
Some mocked me.
Some looked amused.
Some showed pity.
I picked up my glass and walked toward Nora.
Each breath pulled at the wound in my abdomen.
It hurt, but I stood straight.
"Ms. Sawyer, I'm sorry," I said quietly.
"I was narrow minded. I made a mistake."
I moved like a puppet on strings, playing my part in the script Lawrence had written.
Nora did not take the glass.
She covered her mouth and gave a soft laugh.
"Sierra, I don't blame you," she said sweetly.
"You've been with Lawrence for so many years and still couldn't have a child.
It's only natural you feel upset when you see me and Dean."
As she spoke, she reached for the glass.
Splash.
The full glass of red wine was thrown straight onto my face.
The liquid ran down my cheeks.
Some got into my eyes.
It stung sharply.
Nora gasped in an exaggerated way.
But her eyes held a cruel smile.
"Oh no, I was so careless. Sierra, you won't blame me, right?" she said.
The room fell silent.
Hearing the noise, Lawrence looked up and frowned.
But he did not scold Nora.
He simply pulled out a few tissues and handed them to me.
"Wipe it off. Nora didn't mean it," he said lightly.
I gave a small smile.
I did not know if I was laughing at my own foolishness or my last bit of hope.
When a person truly loses hope, they do not make a scene.
I took the tissues and calmly wiped the wine from my face.
"It's fine," I said.
"When the wine wears off, so does the illusion."
Lawrence did not catch what I meant.
That night, he was in high spirits.
He drank until he was dead drunk.
When we got home, he grabbed my hand and mumbled.
"Sierra… from now on, the three of us will live well together…
"Nora will take care of the child… Dean will look after you when you're old…
"Don't worry… the place of Mrs. Quinn is yours forever… no one can take it…"
I helped him onto the bed.
I tucked him in.
Just like every night over the past ten years when he came home drunk.
But this time, I sat by the bed.
In the moonlight, I took one last look at the face I had loved for ten whole years.
What once felt like deep love now looked like nothing but a painted mask.
I took out a document folder from my bag and placed it on the bedside table.
Inside were three things.
A signed divorce agreement.
A thumb drive with the studio's surveillance footage.
And the last one was my surgery report.
After that, I dragged my packed suitcase and walked out.
It was three in the morning.
The streets were empty and cold.
I got into a taxi heading for the airport.
I blocked every way Lawrence could contact me.
The wind blew in through the window.
It dried the tears on my face.
Goodbye, Lawrence.
Goodbye, ten years of my life.
The next morning.
Lawrence woke up from his hangover, thirsty.
He rubbed his aching temples and called out as usual, "Sierra, water."
No answer.
He frowned and sat up.
At a glance, he saw the folder on the bedside table.
"What is she upset about now?" he muttered.
He opened it with impatience.
The first page slipped out.
A divorce agreement.
He flipped through it carelessly.
Then another document slid out.
A line of harsh black words hit his eyes.
His mind exploded.
In his memory, my pale face at the theater entrance,
my clothes soaked with blood,
and the cold words on that report overlapped in an instant.
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