The front door swung open with the kind of urgency that only came with bad news. Dr. Martin, a man whose existence seemed to balance perpetually between life's precipices, stepped through the threshold, his medical bag clutched with reverence. Behind him, Old Mr. Knight entered, his posture a testament to years of carrying the weight of wisdom and silent judgments.
Xavier's jaw clenched, teeth grinding, in anticipation of the familiar reprimand. The look on his father's face was enough to confirm it; another lecture brewed just beneath the surface. There was no escaping the paternal storm.
"Xavier," Old Mr. Knight began, the disappointment heavy in his voice. "We need to talk."
Oblivious-or indifferent-to the gravity settling over the room, Olivia stretched like a cat that had claimed the dining table as her own personal sunspot. Her limbs moved with an elegance that belied the chaos, and her gaze never once flitted toward the newcomers. She stood there, unmoving and expressionless, her body covered in a sluttery dress that did little to cover her body. Even an infant could tell she had been laid the previous night.
"Really, now?" She murmured, overhearing the word 'sick' and knowing it pertained to Cathleen. Olivia did not feel the need for tact or modesty. Tact and modesty were far from Olivia's concerns. She proudly displayed the marks of last night's sexual activities with Xavier, the hickeys left by his touch, without any sense of shame.
"Olivia, would you-" Xavier started, but she cut him off.
"Would I what, darling? Be a dear and fetch me my robe upstairs."
Xavier knew she did that intentionally. Her dismissal was a slap across Xavier's already taut nerves. She rose, her movements fluid and unrepentant, floating past the men, who could only watch in stunned silence. Xavier's father's eyes met his son's for a fleeting moment. There was no disgust there, only an ocean of pity that seemed to say he understood how the violence of love twisted and turned sour.
"Xavier, you can't let her-" Caleb tried to speak, only to be interrupted by the soft click of Olivia's heels ascending the staircase, each step a defiant punctuation to the tense silence.
The hollow sound of Doctor Martin's heavy footsteps reverberated through the grand hall, each step being a solemn cadence against the polished marble floor. He came to a stop at the foot of the grand staircase, his dark figure silhouetted against the fading light that filtered through the stained glass windows. With a somber shake of his head, he turned to address Xavier, his expression grave and burdened with a weighty message.
"Mr. Knight," he began, the lines of concern etched deep into his weathered face. "I thought that young lady was your wife; correct me if I'm wrong. How do you explain your wife having a fever and you failing to notice it?" His gaze pierced Xavier like an accusation. "Your wife might have fallen trying to look for help or maybe going to the bathroom because I checked her, and she has rhabdomyolysis. Which indicates that she has been on the floor for a very long time." He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. "Let's see how she reacts to the medication, and we will take it from there."
Doctor Martin didn't wait for a reply; his duty called him back to the ailing Cathleen. His departure left a chilling void in the room, filled only by the palpable tension that now enveloped father and son.
"Son," old Mr. Knight started his voice a low rumble of disappointment that seemed to vibrate through the foundations of the house itself. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, now brimmed with a feeling of sorrow so profound that it cracked the stoic facade he had upheld for decades. A single tear betrayed his emotions, tracing a solitary path down his wrinkled cheek. "Several times I begged you to let the poor woman go. I begged you to divorce her. I forced her to marry you if I knew you would treat her like this. I could have let my precious Cathy marry Finn instead."
The air grew thick with the scent of regret and unspoken truths. The old man's next words sliced through the silence like a knife, raw and unforgiving.
"You were busy balls-deep inside another woman when your wife was in her room looking for help. Did I raise you to abuse people who are weaker than you, Xavier?"
His posture wavered, causing a brief stumble that caused him to lean towards the couch nearby. Xavier reacted quickly, reaching out his hand in an attempt to catch him. But Mr. Knight's stubbornness was unbreakable, and he refused any assistance.
"Don't act like you care," he spat, swatting away the gesture of false compassion. "Save your care for your slut."
With that, he sank into the cushions, the weight of his disillusionment as heavy as the silence that followed. At that moment, the opulent room felt more like a mausoleum, housing the ghosts of familial love and the lingering specters of betrayal.
Xavier's form was a study in stillness, an icy sculpture lounging on the plush couch. He was close enough to his father to offer support, yet his mind spun with thoughts of Cathleen-defiant, indomitable Cathleen. His poker face betrayed none of the turmoil that churned within him.
"Is she really sick?" The question had been asked by Finn, who was hovering around, his voice dripping with a blend of concern and skepticism.
"Who knows?" Xavier muttered. The words came out flat, devoid of care. He rose abruptly, leaving his father's side, driven by a need to unmask what he believed to be another of Cathleen's calculated moves.
The hallway seemed longer than usual as he strode toward her room, his footsteps a silent drumbeat of accusation. Was this just another ploy? A ruse from the woman who manipulated men for a living, used her pussy to meet ends needs, and had a sharp tongue that could defeat anyone who dares her?
He pushed open the door without knocking, his entrance as cold as his glare. "Cathleen?"
She didn't stir at the sound of his voice; her body curled up amidst a tangle of sheets, her usually animated face now worryingly still.
"Stop pretending," he commanded, though his voice faltered slightly as doubt crept in.
But the sight that met him shattered his suspicion. There she was-Cathleen, the invincible-reduced to a pallid shadow of herself. Her brow glistened with the sheen of fever, and her breaths were shallow and labored.
"Damn it, Cathleen." Xavier's voice was no more than a whisper, laced with a terror he hadn't felt in years. His facade cracked, vulnerability seeping through the fissures.
"Why are you so fragile?" The question escaped him-a plea rather than an accusation. Guilt surged through him, overwhelming and drowning-a tide he couldn't stem. He had left her in the rain, stripped of protection, exposed to the storm's wrath. Had his cruelty brought this illness upon her?
Xavier's fists clenched at his sides, the familiar anger battling the unfamiliar surge of concern. Betrayal or not, love or hate, she was his wife, and he had never meant to break her.