Chapter 51 Chapter 51: No One’s Coming
Cathy's P.O.V
"Is that all I ever was to you?" I ask, and my voice sounds hollow, like it's coming from someone else entirely. "A money making machine? Is that all I've ever been?"
My mother scoffs, waving her hand dismissively like my words are nothing more than a nuisance.
"You make barely forty thousand a year from that little job of yours, Cathy," she says, and the way she says the word ‘little’ makes it sound like an insult. "Forty thousand. Do you know what that buys? Nothing. Not even close to nothing. Meanwhile, your brother is now earning over a hundred and fifty thousand a year working at Dalton Inc. A hundred and fifty thousand."
She says the number like it's sacred, like it's the most important thing in the world.
"Marrying into riches," my mother continues, crossing her arms and looking at me with an expression that makes my stomach turn, "is the only good thing you have ever done for this family. The only useful thing."
The words land like another slap, quieter than the first but somehow heavier. I stand there and let them sink in, feeling something inside me crack a little more.
My mother watches me for a moment, and when I don't respond, something shifts in her expression. The guilt I saw earlier is completely gone now, replaced by something harder, more impatient.
"Now," she says, stepping toward me and pointing toward the front door. "You are going to go back. You are going to apologize to Xavier for whatever you did, for however you upset him, and you are going to fix this. Because this family cannot afford to lose what we have now."
"Mom, I didn't do anything wrong," I say, but my voice is weak, barely above a whisper.
"I don't care," she snaps. "I don't care whose fault it is or what he did. What I care about is that our family can keep affording these luxuries all thanks to Xavier. So you will go back to your husband, you will keep your mouth shut about whatever it is you think he's done, and you will make sure everything stays the way it is."
She takes another step closer, and her eyes are cold in a way I have never seen before.
"Because if anything happens," she says, her voice dropping low and serious, "if you do something stupid and Colton loses his job because of your little tantrum, then you will not be welcome in this house ever again. Do you understand me, Cathy? Ever again."
I stare at her, waiting for her to take it back, waiting for some flicker of maternal love to break through the ice in her eyes. But nothing comes. She just stands there, waiting for me to move, waiting for me to obey.
"Go," she says firmly, jerking her head toward the door.
I don't fight her. I don't have the energy to fight anymore. I turn slowly, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else, and walk toward the front door. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I'm dragging something invisible behind me.
I reach for the door handle and pull it open. The cold air hits my face immediately, sharp and biting. I step out onto the front porch and hear the door slam shut behind me. Hard. Final. Like a period at the end of a sentence that has already been decided.
I stand there on the porch for a long moment, staring at nothing. The realization hits me slowly, creeping in like ice spreading across a lake. It starts at the edges of my mind and works its way inward until it consumes everything.
My own family. The people I thought loved me, the people I thought would always be on my side, had been working behind my back this entire time. My mother had gone to my husband, the man who was lying to me and cheating on me, and asked him for favors. She had used me, used my marriage, used my position as Xavier's wife, to secure a comfortable life for herself and Colton. And she had done it without telling me. Without giving me a single warning.
They had tried to extort Xavier while I was living a lie. While I was blindly trusting a man who never loved me, my own mother was quietly cashing in on the arrangement.
And now, if I went through with the divorce, everything would unravel. The prenup would strip me of almost everything I had. Colton's job would be gone the moment Xavier decided to cut ties. My mother would lose this house, the car, the furniture, all of it. They would expect me to pay back whatever Xavier had given them, and I would have nothing to pay with.
The thought wraps around my chest like a vice and squeezes. At first it's just a tightness, a pressure behind my sternum that makes it hard to breathe. I take a breath, trying to push through it, but the air won't go all the way down. It stops halfway, stuck somewhere in my throat.
I try again. And again. Each breath shorter than the last, each one less satisfying than the one before.
My heart starts to race, pounding so hard and so fast I can feel it in my temples, in my fingertips, in my teeth. The world around me starts to blur at the edges, the suburban street and the new fence and the expensive plants all bleeding together into a smear of color.
I can't breathe. I really can't breathe.
My knees buckle and I sink down onto the front steps, my hands gripping the cold concrete as my chest heaves over and over in desperate, ragged gasps. Each breath comes faster than the last, sharp and shallow, pulling in nothing but panic.
I'm hyperventilating. I know what this is. I've read about it, I've seen it happen to other people. But knowing what it is doesn't make it stop. The air won't come. My lungs won't expand. Everything is tight and wrong and falling apart.
I waited for my mother to come out. Some part of me, some small, childish part that still believes in the woman who used to hold me when I cried, waits for the door to open behind me. Waits for her footsteps on the porch. Waits for her hand on my back or her voice telling me to calm down.
The door stays shut.
She's not coming. She can hear me out here, gasping and struggling on her front steps, and she's not coming.
The realization pushes the panic even higher. I press my hands against my chest, trying to hold myself together, trying to breathe, trying to do anything other than collapse right here on the sidewalk.
I think I'm going to pass out. The edges of my vision are going dark, the world spinning slowly around me like I'm on a carnival ride that won't stop. My body feels light and heavy at the same time, like I'm floating and drowning simultaneously.
And then hands appear. Warm, steady hands on my shoulders, guiding me gently but firmly to sit back against the porch railing.
"Okay, okay, I've got you," a voice says, calm and familiar in a way that cuts through the fog of panic. "You're okay. Just breathe with me. In through your nose, slow, like this."
I feel a hand on my back, rubbing gentle circles between my shoulder blades. Another hand finds mine and squeezes, grounding me.
"That's it. Slow. In through your nose. Hold it. Now out through your mouth. Good. Again. You're doing great. Just keep going."
I follow the voice, letting it guide my breathing the way a lifeline guides a drowning person to shore. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. Over and over, each breath a little deeper than the last, each one pulling a little more air into my burning lungs.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the tightness in my chest begins to loosen. The darkness at the edges of my vision starts to fade. My heart rate begins to come down, still fast but no longer racing like it's trying to break free from my ribcage.
The episode passes. Not all at once, but gradually, like a storm moving away, leaving behind only the cold and the quiet and the trembling aftermath.
I sat there for a long moment, my head bowed, my breathing still shaky but steadier now. My hands are trembling in my lap and my cheeks are wet with tears. I don't even remember crying.
When I finally feel steady enough to lift my head, I turn slowly to look at the person who just saved me.
And my breath catches all over again. It's Hannah.
Hannah, who lived two houses down when we were kids. Hannah, who sat next to me on the first day of middle school when I didn't know a single person and was too scared to talk. Hannah, who used to come over after school and sit with me on the back porch while we talked about everything and nothing.
My neighbor. My friend since we were twelve years old. She's crouching beside me on the steps, one hand still resting gently on my back, her brown eyes wide with concern as she looks at me. She's bundled up in a thick winter coat, a scarf wrapped around her neck, like she was in the middle of doing something outside when she heard me.
"Cathy?" She says softly, and the way she says my name, gentle and careful, like she's afraid I might break if she speaks too loud, makes something crack open inside my chest all over again.
"Hannah," I whisper.