Chapter Two

Sloane's POV

Freya crouched down, wrapping her arms around Poppy, resting her chin on the girl's head—the motion practiced, as if rehearsed a thousand times. Poppy tilted her face up, her smile curving her eyes into crescents.

"If Mom really divorces him, you can be my new mommy!"

I stood by the dining table, silent.

"Freya takes me to get my nails done, buys me strawberry ice cream, and lets me watch cartoons all afternoon!" Poppy counted on her fingers. "She never forces me to practice ballet or memorize those stupid vocabulary words—"

She whirled toward me, her eyes bright and cutting. "All you do is force me to learn this and that, make me go to bed at nine o'clock—what's the fun in that? Freya says children should have a happy childhood!"

I didn't respond. But she wouldn't stop. "And all those languages you know—what's the point of learning seven or eight? Your own voice is so ugly—Daddy's allergic to you because your voice is so grating, isn't it?"

She was only eight, yet she knew exactly which threads to pull, which soft spots in my heart to stab. Her eyes held no hesitation, only naked mockery—she was waiting for me to break down, waiting for me to cry, waiting for me to fall to my knees and beg, "Mommy was wrong."

Freya stood up on cue, patting Poppy's shoulder, turning to flash me a perfectly calibrated apologetic smile. "Sloane, don't take it to heart. Kids are just blunt." She held out the white tulips. "By the way, these are for you and Alaric. Happy anniversary."

She paused, glancing at Poppy with a tone as gentle as a parenting lecture. "Though... Poppy is closer to me. You know how it is at this age—being too controlling just pushes them away. Sometimes kids just need someone who listens, not someone who controls."

Every word wrapped in honey. Every word a knife.

And Alaric? He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He didn't stop Poppy. Didn't say a single word in my defense. As if the scene before him had nothing to do with him, as if the woman being humiliated wasn't his wife but some irrelevant stranger.

I suddenly smiled. "Since Poppy wants Freya as her mother so badly, then let her have her. Starting today, Poppy's ballet classes, her homework, her midnight ice cream stomach aches and emergency room visits—all yours."

I looked at Freya. "After all, you're right. I'm too strict. I'm not a good mother. So let the good mother take over."

Poppy's smile froze on her face. Freya's expression held for less than two seconds before cracking, color draining from her face. Alaric sat bolt upright, his gaze heavy and dark, as if seeing me for the first time.

The silence didn't last long. Alaric broke it first, clearing his throat. "Alright, enough. Freya's here, let's all have something to eat."

And so this household resumed its familiar theater. Poppy attentively moved the roasted chicken from her plate to Freya's. Alaric poured her sparkling water. Father and daughter circled Freya with laughter and conversation, like a family of three celebrating a holiday. I stood to the side—superfluous, invisible, like a piece of old furniture shoved into a corner.

Freya pushed the food around her plate with her fork, frowning slightly. "This salad tastes a bit off... I was actually craving mac and cheese. Do you have the ingredients?"

Alaric didn't even turn around, casually telling me, "Sloane, there should be cheddar in the kitchen. Go make Freya some."

His tone was so casual, like ordering a servant. Last winter when Freya mentioned wanting mulled wine, he remembered it needed two cinnamon sticks, three cloves, orange slices without seeds. When I had severe migraines for a whole week, he never once handed me a pain reliever. Every time we went out, he always remembered Freya got cold and turned on the passenger seat warmer for her, but never remembered I got carsick and needed to sit in front. When Freya mentioned she liked peonies, fresh ones filled the vase the next day. I'd waited eight anniversaries for roses. Never got them. Today was no exception.

"I'm busy. I don't have time."

Alaric finally turned to look at me, displeasure creasing his brow. "Freya is your cousin. Is this how you treat guests?"

I raised my eyes. "I thought hearing me talk gave you headaches, ringing ears, made your whole body ache? Tonight you've been chatting quite a while and I haven't seen you cover your ears once."

His lips moved, unable to form a coherent response.

"Looks like your ears suddenly healed, but your brain's broken—you can't even remember who your wife is." I set down my glass, enunciating each word. "It's fine. If your brain's broken—I'll say it again. I want a divorce."