There he is, standing in the doorway. Mavros. And Vivian is clinging to his arm like she’s already won. Her smile is smug, radiant in that way only betrayal can be.
His eyes land on the suitcase, and his brow furrows. “What’s this, Izara? Another one of your tantrums? Feeling sorry for yourself because I didn’t show up for your son?”
Your son. Never our son.
Before I can even process the rage boiling in my veins, Vivian speaks, her voice oozing with fake concern. “Oh, Izzy, don’t be upset. I asked him to stay with me. I wasn’t feeling well, and, well, Mavros was just being the thoughtful man he is.”
That smile. That triumphant, venomous smile.
Memories hit me like a truck. I was sick once too—pregnant with Kallias, barely holding on. I called Mavros, begging for help. He didn’t answer then either. When I dragged myself to his study, shaking, clutching my stomach, he didn’t even look up.
“Stop being such a ninny, Izara. You’re not dying. Leave me alone,” he’d said.
If Monica hadn’t come for me, Kallias and I wouldn’t have survived. And where was Mavros during all of that? With Vivian. Always with her.