Evening came, and I drove home slowly, savoring the quiet. No rush, no need to arrive precisely when Zaldy demanded, no fear of disapproval. In the past, I would have pushed the car to every limit to reach the manor on time; even meals had been rituals, strict rules he enforced to remind me of my “duties.”
I never understood why he clung to these routines when there was no love, no partnership. Perhaps it was for show, proof to the family and household that we were a “proper couple,” though we lived apart, slept apart, existed entirely separate.
But when I entered the manor, my chest tightened.
Gritte, Zaldy’s younger sister, lounged on the couch beside Maria, shopping bags from designer boutiques scattered around them.
“Oh, you’re back,” Gritte sneered, dripping entitlement. “Why so late? We’re hungry. The chef hasn’t prepared anything. Go fix it.”
Her words stung, a reminder of all the thankless labor I had poured into this house. Maria didn’t look at me, fussing over a new handbag as though I were invisible.