I turned back to face her, and for the first time, I saw my reflection in her eyes—a haggard, broken shell of a man who had endured far more than he should have.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The world spun around me, and it felt like I was plunging into an endless abyss, the same kind of soul-crushing pain I had felt when my parents died.
But back then, Margot had pulled me out of that darkness.
Now, she was the one shoving me back in.
I clenched my teeth, steadying myself with my injured left hand. A wave of searing pain shot through me as blood dripped onto the floor, vivid and jarring against the polished surface.
“Hey, Steven, the baker said this cake is pineapple, not mango,” someone remarked casually nearby.
My stomach twisted. Earlier, when I tasted the cake, the strong scent of mango had been unmistakable. And Margot had been standing right in front of me, watching me eat it.
Yet, she had believed Steven’s lie and, worse, punished me for calling it out.
Grinding the sharp heel of her stiletto into my injured fingers, she hissed, “Frank, what’s the point of lying? Stop slandering Steven. How does this help you? Apologize to us right now!”