My father stepped forward and pulled her back with a hand on her shoulder. He was calmer, but no less disappointed.
"Enough. He's not a child. Say your piece, but don't raise your hand again."
Then he turned to me, his gaze heavy with judgment.
"You don't seem to understand the kind of family the Rogers are. Cole Group would've never grown to where it is without their help. And you—what have you accomplished? You've been married for ten years and still haven't had a single child with Sara."
My mother folded her arms and scoffed. "Exactly. All you do is sulk and throw tantrums. Listen to me, Oliver—when it comes to Sara, you have no right to ask for a divorce. Not now, not ever."
With that, they both walked away, leaving me alone in the center of the room.
I stood in silence, my cheek still tingling. My bare foot throbbed from the sprain, the ankle red and swollen. The scent of medicinal spray still lingered in the air—pungent, bitter, clinging to the back of my throat. And yet, from the moment my parents arrived until the moment they left, neither of them asked about it. Not a single glance.
All they cared about was Sara. The marriage. The Rogers. Their own reputation.