Chapter 7
1198 Words
Sarah's POV
Kael slid my black coffee across the table, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction longer than necessary.
“You look like someone who hasn't slept for days,” he said.
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and managed a weak smile. “Is it that obvious?”
The truth sat heavy without us.
“I'm being treated as a slave in my own marriage,” I whispered. “I don't belong there. But I don't know what to do, neither do I have anywhere to go.”
“I can't break the contract. At least not yet,” I added.
Kael’s jaw tightened. He set his mug down. “Sarah… I honestly don't know what to say to calm you down right now. But I need you to know that you need to calm down first. You can't break now. Because if you do, no one will be there to save you. So calm down, and take it in while planning what to do in your mind.”
I nodded, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I blinked them back fiercely. “It feels like I’m disappearing. Piece by piece. Everything I loved? Not appropriate for a Moretti wife. The way I act? Tacky. She's always making me feel less of myself. I'm tired!”
He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His palm was warm, callused from years of hands-on work restoring old frames and installing exhibits. The touch sent an unwelcome spark up my arm, equal parts comfort and danger. I didn’t pull away.
“You’re allowed to grieve,” he said quietly. “You’re allowed to miss the life that made sense to you. Adrian and his mom knew who you were when he married you. He doesn’t get to rewrite you into someone else that's not you.”
A small, bitter laugh escaped me. “He never accepts the fact that his mom might be wrong. Every time I try to talk to him about it, it's like hitting a wall.”
Kael’s thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand before he caught himself and withdrew, though his gaze stayed locked on mine. “Remember when we first met. You never allowed the things your family does get to you. You had fire. Where's that Sarah now?”
“She's tired and confused,” I muttered, staring into my coffee. “She’s helpless and doesn't know what to do. Sometimes I wonder, maybe I'm not supposed to be born.”
“And what do you want?” Kael pressed, his knee brushing mine under the table. The contact lingered. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re playing a role that’s slowly killing the woman you have always been.”
“I don’t know anymore,” I whispered. “Part of me wants things to work out between me and Adrian so I'll just live in peace. But another part sees it as me putting myself as a second option.”
Our eyes held. His hand found mine again, this time without pretense. The café noise faded into background static.
My phone buzzed sharply on the table.
Adrian’s name flashed on the screen. A text: Mother says the tailor arrives at 11:30 for gala fittings. Don’t be late. Do hurry back, Sarah.
I pulled my hand back, cheeks flushing with a mix of shame and resentment.
“I have to go,” I said, standing. “Something came up at home. Things will get worse if I'm late.”
Kael stood too. “Text me when you get home,” he murmured. “Or if you need anything. Anytime, day or night. Just let me know.”
I nodded against his chest, then stepped back. “Thank you. For listening.”
The drive back to the mansion felt longer than the trip into the city. Every red light was a few more second of freedom. Seconds where no one reminded me that I was a mistake the family had to live with.
But the gates opened anyway. The house was lit up, golden and unwelcoming. Eleanor waited on the steps. No coat. She wanted everyone to see her waiting for her daughter-in-law.
“Sarah,” she said as I got out with a perfect smile. “There you are. We were beginning to think you’d forgotten the road to your house.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, weakly.
She turned and went inside and I followed.
The tailor was already set up in the sitting room. Fabrics, pins, measuring tape. She measured me without meeting my eyes.
Eleanor sat in the armchair, watching. “Stand straight, Sarah. Bend a little. Life you head up. A Moretti wife is always perfect without flaw.”
“Adrian is working so hard to make this marriage work,” Eleanor added, voice soft enough for the tailor to hear. “The least you can do is not add to his burden by being weak. He has enough to manage with the company. He doesn’t need to worry about his wife embarrassing him in public.”
I didn’t answer. What was there to say? Saying anything to her would obviously not change anything.
When the tailor left, Eleanor walked me to the stairs. “Dinner at eight. We have to prepare for the upcoming gala. And Sarah? Don't ever leave this house to meet a friend or grab any coffee. This whole house is enough of whatever you want to do. You have a name to protect now. Try to act like it.”
Upstairs, the room was empty. Adrian’s briefcase sat open. A note on my pillow.
“Late meeting. Don’t wait up.”
At 7:55pm I went downstairs. Eleanor was arranging flowers.
Adrian arrived at 8:07. He kissed Eleanor first, then me. His lips barely touched my skin.
Eleanor launched into plans. Gala seating. Charity board. She spoke to Adrian, about me, as if I wasn’t there.
“And for the speech at the foundation event,” she said, “I told them Sarah isn’t comfortable with public speaking. She’ll sit in the front row and smile. That’s enough, isn’t it, dear?”
‘My father built that gallery from nothing,” I said quietly. Everyone turned. “I’ve spoken to donors, to critics, to crowds bigger than that foundation room. I’m comfortable with public speaking, Ma'am Eleanor.”
The word Eleanor instead of Mother made her flinch slightly.
Adrian looked at me.
“Sarah!!!” He cautioned.
Eleanor recovered fast. Her smile was thinner now. “Well…That’s admirable, dear. But the Moretti Foundation has a certain tone. A certain message. We can’t have personal stories mixed in. It would seem unprofessional. I’ll have my secretary prepare something for you. You can memorize it.”
I nodded. “I’d like to see the draft. Thank you.”
Adrian cleared his throat. “If you’re up for it, then do it. Just don’t make it weird. The board hates weird.”
I nodded again.
I'm not strong, neither am I up to their standard. But I'm nervous going to let them intimidate me.
- Writer
