The Blood-Stained Cheque

Chapter 2 The Worthless Apology

The scent hit me first.

Champagne clung to his jacket, the expensive kind served in the hospital's private wing. I had smelled it on Mia when she passed close to the door.

Julian had not even bothered to change before putting on his workman's jacket.

I stepped away from his open arms. They hung there for a second before he lowered them. His tired expression slipped. He was used to coming home with another disaster and finding me ready to comfort him.

“Serena?” Impatience sharpened his voice. “Don't be like this. I'm exhausted.”

“Are you?”

The trial medication chose that moment to turn the room sideways. Nausea rose into my throat. I caught the edge of the dusty table and waited for the bulb overhead to stop smearing across my vision.

Julian watched my hand tremble and drew the answer he wanted.

“I know it's been hard, honey. You're tired of living like this.” He took a step closer and used the soft tone that had worked on me for years. “It's almost over. I promise. Just a little longer.”

I pushed a single sheet of paper across the table toward him. The ink was dry now, my signature jagged across the cheap printer paper.

“It's a divorce agreement.”

He looked from the paper to me and chuckled.

“A divorce? Serena, don't be dramatic. Is this about the rent being late again? I told you money is tight.”

“Money is not tight, Julian. Not for you.”

His smile disappeared. He straightened, and the weary laborer vanished with it. Even his breathing changed. The man from the VIP ward studied me across the table and decided how much this problem would cost.

“All right. You found out.” He glanced at the bag beside me. “I was going to tell you tonight. The test is over. You won.”

He gestured around the room as though he could erase it with one hand.

“I'll buy you the penthouse downtown. We'll put in the biggest studio you can imagine. You can paint again. Isn't that what you want?”

Yesterday, I would have cried over that offer. A studio had been the promise I repeated to myself through night shifts and trial appointments.

Now I could only see how quickly he reached for money when I stopped obeying him.

I had been willing to die for him. He had watched it happen and called it a test. I picked up my duffel bag.

“Your test is over,” I said. “So are we.”

I walked past him. He stayed beside the table with the divorce papers under his hand. For once, I left him holding a bill he had not chosen and could not pay for me.

“Serena, stop this foolishness!” His control finally cracked. “Where do you think you're going?”

I left without answering.

Five steps from the building, headlights caught me full in the face. A blood-red sports car stopped across my path, tires scraping the curb. Its engine revved hard enough to bring our neighbors to their windows and apartment doors.