Chapter 9 #9
Chapter 9
~ Shailyn ~
I stood frozen in place, my feet rooted to the sidewalk like I’d been turned to stone. My brain kept replaying what I’d just seen—Cynthia Belmar, my perfect, pristine, judgmental mother-in-law, kissing a man who was definitely not her crippled husband. The image burned itself into my retinas, refusing to fade.
Hannah must have noticed something was wrong because she stopped waving and started walking toward me, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Shailyn? Hey, are you okay?” She tapped my shoulder gently, and the touch snapped me back to reality.
I blinked rapidly, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent. I couldn’t tell her. We’d just met a week ago. How could I possibly explain that I’d just caught my mother-in-law — the woman who’d made my life a living hell for five years — cheating on her husband? It sounded absurd even in my own head. Like something out of a trashy drama, not real life.
“I’m fine!” I said too quickly, forcing a smile that felt plastic on my face. “I just… I saw a really pretty bird. Over there. In that tree.”
A bird? Really, Shailyn? That’s the best you could come up with?
Hannah looked at me skeptically, her eyes searching my face for the truth I was desperately trying to hide. For a moment, I thought she was going to call me out on the obvious lie. But then her expression softened, and she just smiled.
“Okay,” she said simply. “Must have been one hell of a bird.”
She didn’t pry, didn’t push, didn’t demand an explanation I wasn’t ready to give. And I loved her for it.
We spent the rest of the afternoon together, and despite the shocking discovery still churning in my mind, I found myself genuinely enjoying Hannah’s company. We tried on ridiculous sunglasses at a boutique, shared an enormous slice of chocolate cake at a dessert café, and laughed until our stomachs hurt over stupid memes on her phone.
We bonded in ways I hadn’t expected—over our shared love of terrible rom-coms, our mutual hatred of pretentious people, our dreams of lives bigger than the ones we were currently living.
By the time we said goodbye, we’d made a pact: every Saturday, no matter what, we’d do something fun together. Something just for us, to escape the stress of work and family and all the complicated messes we were tangled up in.
It felt good to have a friend. It felt good to have something to look forward to.
When I got back to Aunt Patricia’s house that evening, the smell of macaroni and cheese hit me the moment I walked through the door. Aunt Patricia’s signature comfort food—the one dish she made whenever she wanted something from me.
Sure enough, she appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Shailyn! Your husband is still out of town? I’m getting tired already, jeez!.”
“I’m sorry aunt, he will soon be home, besides… you’re practically the only family I have, so… I’m always welcomed!” I hugged her from behind and could feel her rolling her eyes.
“Whatever. I spent a thousand dollars on this dinner, so…” she extended her hands.
I knew what she wanted, a refund. Aunt Patricia is so money driven, “Oh my goodness! A thousand dollars for mac and cheese? Jesus Christ aunty, have the fear of the Lord”
I took out five 100 dollar bills and gave it to her, and immediately her demeanor enlightened, “You owe me 500 more”
So much for a supposed aunt! I was literally paying the whole goddamn expenses in this house including the rent and yet, she still somehow tries to make my life a living hell.
We sat down together, and she immediately launched into an update about my mother’s condition. Same old story—no improvement, no decline, just endless stasis. My mother trapped in her broken body, unable to speak, unable to move freely, unable to tell anyone the secrets she’d been carrying for nearly three decades.
Then came the real reason for the macaroni.
“Shailyn, honey, I hate to ask, but…” Aunt Patricia twisted the dish towel in her hands. “I really need more money. The medical bills are piling up, and Max needs…”
“I know,” I interrupted gently. “I’ll see what I can do. Just… give me a little more time, okay?”
I’d been putting her off concerning that money she asked for a while now. The truth was, I didn’t have access to much money. Dante controlled everything — the bank accounts, the credit cards, even the household expenses. I had a small salary from my job as a debugger, but most of it went toward my mother’s care. There was never anything left over.
…
The following work week was brutal. Back-to-back projects, tight deadlines, and constant pressure from management to deliver perfect code with impossible turnaround times. But at least it gave Hannah and me more opportunities to work together, to share inside jokes and knowing glances across our adjoining desks.
The silver lining of the chaos was that I hadn’t seen Dante all week. Not once. He hadn’t shown up at my desk, hadn’t cornered me in the hallway, hadn’t sent his assistant to summon me to his office. The absence should have been a relief, but instead it left me on edge, constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Dante’s silence was somehow more terrifying than his presence.
I was rushing to a meeting with a stack of papers in my arms and my mind a million miles away. I turned a corner too fast, didn’t see the person coming from the opposite direction, and suddenly I was falling—papers flying everywhere, my heels slipping on the polished floor.
I braced for impact, for the humiliating crash that would leave me sprawled on the ground in front of half the office.
But it never came.
Strong hands caught me around the waist, steadying me before I could hit the floor. The grip was firm but somehow gentle, and for a moment, I was pressed against a solid chest that smelled like expensive cologne and something darker, more primal.
I looked up slowly, already knowing who I’d see.
Dwayne.
His dark eyes locked onto mine, and I felt the air leave my lungs. We were so close I could see the flecks of gold in his irises, could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hands were still on my waist, and even through my blouse, his touch burned.
“Careful,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You could hurt yourself.”
I couldn’t speak or do anything except stand there like an idiot, drowning in the memory of those same hands on my bare skin, touching me in ways that still haunted my dreams.
Time seemed to slow down, the world narrowing to just the two of us—his hands on my waist, his eyes on my face, the tension crackling between us like electricity.
And then a voice shattered the moment like glass.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Dante.
His voice was pure venom, sharp and deadly. I jerked away from Dwayne so fast I nearly tripped again, my heart hammering in my chest.