Chapter 8
781 Words
"Why the hell weren't you picking up?" John's voice came barreling through the line the moment the call connected.
Sophia, utterly drained and hollow, could barely muster a response.
"Hello? Are you even listening? Hello?" John's impatience was now biting.
His voice grated on her ears, like nails on a chalkboard. She couldn't take it anymore. "What is it?" she asked, her tone clipped.
"What are you so busy with that you couldn't answer? Anyway, after you pick up Mia tonight, let's go out for dinner together," he said, his tone softening just a tad.
At the mention of her daughter, something in Sophia snapped back into focus. "Why are we going out? Mia just got over being sick—it's better for her to stay home. What if she catches a cold again from the wind?"
"Just bring her along. There's a dinner tonight hosted by one of the studio's sponsors. He specifically invited our family—it's not something we can skip. If you don't want to pick her up, I will," John said, cutting the conversation short as he hung up.
No room for negotiation, no regard for her feelings.
Suppressing her frustration, Sophia grabbed her things and rushed to Mia's kindergarten. But by the time she arrived, John had already beaten her to it.
Of course, he had. John knew all too well that she hated taking Mia to these so-called "gatherings," which were little more than smoky, boozy cesspools of drunken chatter.
She had always wanted to shield Mia from such environments—protect her from the sticky grasp of adulthood too soon.
But John? He relished showing off their daughter at these functions. With her doll-like face and endearing chatter, Mia was his golden ticket to lightening the mood at any table.
They had fought about this countless times before, but clearly, John had no intention of changing. He'd preempted her resistance this time by picking up Mia himself.
Fuming, Sophia snatched her phone and dialed John.
"What now?" he answered, sounding as though he'd done her a favor.
"Where are you? Where did you take Mia?" she demanded.
"To the restaurant—the one we always go to. I picked her up for you, so just head straight here," John said, his tone casual, as if this was all perfectly normal.
Slamming the phone down, Sophia made a beeline for the restaurant.
When she arrived, her forehead was already damp with sweat from rushing.
From outside the private dining room, she could hear the clink of glasses and the sound of boisterous laughter.
"John, you're still such a henpecked husband, huh? Your wife must've saved the universe in her past life to end up with a guy like you. So, tell us—has the temptation out there ever gotten to you?" one man teased, his words dripping with sarcasm.
Just as she was about to storm in, Sophia stopped. She wanted to hear how John would spin this.
Before he could answer, however, it was Mia's clear, childlike voice that rang out.
"Daddy and Mommy love each other. Mommy's the best mommy in the whole world, and Daddy will always love her!"
The room burst into laughter at her innocent words.
"Oh, sweetie, you don't understand. Your dad's the amazing one here—talented, rich, keeping your mom comfy at home. Without him, she wouldn't have it so easy," someone quipped.
"That's not true!" Mia shot back, her small voice brimming with indignation. "Mom works really hard! She makes me yummy meals every day, and when I'm sick, she stays up all night to take care of me. My mom is the best mom in the whole world!"
But the adults at the table barely acknowledged her. They continued laughing, their voices dripping with condescension, while John's chuckle blended seamlessly into the noise.
Something inside Sophia broke.
She shoved the door open, her eyes zeroing in on Mia, who was perched in the middle of the table, surrounded by plates of food.
John, meanwhile, was off to the side, engrossed in pouring drinks and laughing with his sponsor.
"Oh, you're here!" John said, catching sight of her. "Come in, come in! Give Mr. Wilson a toast—"
Ignoring him, Sophia walked straight to Mia, scooped her up into her arms, and turned to leave.
"Hey! What's your problem? Mr. Wilson's waiting for your toast!"
John called after her, stepping in front to block her path.
Her eyes swept the room—taking in the smoky haze, the leering faces, the plates of food—and finally landed on John.
"Move it." she said, her voice cold enough to cut through the din.
- Writer
