And Elliot—the devoted husband in everyone else's eyes—had spent the day of our son's funeral in a hotel room with his secretary.
The memory surged through me. I looked down at the pear in my hand, saw Elliot's face, and drove the knife straight into it.
If today weren't such a special occasion, I would have buried that blade in the bastard's chest without a second thought. Without mercy.
Elliot watched me seething in silence, and he laughed again. In his eyes, I was nothing but a Farley household servant. Even if I wanted to lay a hand on him, I wouldn't dare.
I turned to leave. My plan was to wait until the gala wrapped up, then settle the score with this disgusting pair properly.
But before I could take a step, a little boy came running at me and hurled something straight in my direction.
"You evil woman! What are you trying to do to my mommy and daddy!"
Something sharp sliced across my neck. I felt a thin line of cold, and when I reached up to touch it, my fingers came away red. Blood.
Elliot and Gladys's kid stood in front of me with his hands on his hips, chin jutted out in that insufferable way that was a carbon copy of his father.