Hours later, Scott came back. He didn’t even glance at the candle burning for our child. Of course he didn’t. He just looked at me with that fake, exhausted smile, and said, “I’m sorry, baby. I overreacted earlier. Jasmine wants a banquet tomorrow. You’ll handle it, right?”
I laughed but it came out cracked and raw. “Tomorrow? That’s impossible.”
His smile vanished. “I’m not asking if you can do it. I’m telling you to do it.”
Jasmine appeared behind him, wrapping her frail arms around his waist. “Scott, it’s okay… we can do it next week—”
“No. It has to be now,” Scott said. “Everyone must know you’re alive. They won’t dare touch you again.” His eyes cut to me. “Nadine will handle it.”
And that was that. They left me there — like a servant — to make call after call, pulling favors, arranging everything for the woman who’d ordered me dead.
I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t dare. I worked until my fingers were raw, the candle at my father’s altar burning down to a stub.
Hours before dawn, I passed their bedroom. The door was ajar and the soft sound of moaning spilled into the hallway.
I stood there for a moment. I didn’t cry. There were no tears left for them.