Did he think our son was some toy, something to discard and replace whenever he pleased?
When he saw me sway on my feet, his eyes flickered with concern. He instinctively reached out to steady me, but a cry from outside cut him short.
“Charlton! Luca fell!” Mariam’s anxious voice rang through the courtyard.
His face changed instantly, and without hesitation, he rushed out the door.
I stared blankly after him, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.
When our son was alive, a mere tear in his eye would earn nothing but his daddy’s stern words. “Be strong. Boys shouldn’t cry.”
Never once did he show such worry.
But for Mariam’s child, a simple stumble sent him into a panic.
Halfway through the doorway, he turned back and gripped my shoulders hard.
“Arizona, I’m at a critical point in my career. Mariam is the director’s daughter; whether I get promoted depends entirely on her. I know you hate her, but we can’t fight her. Listen, don’t make trouble now, alright?”
The way he said it told me he had practiced those words many times.
It was as if he were ready for my outrage, ready to suppress me.
But instead of lashing out, I smiled faintly, each word torn from my bleeding heart.
“I won’t make trouble.”