Chapter 9
“Dad’s eyes were red with heartache,” he turned to Margaret, saying condescendingly: “Since you’re loaded, just fund the upgrades for the mountain facilities.”
Margaret stood before the fridge holding milk, watching Victor flaunt his father’s affection. Hearing his entitled de- mand still made her hand falter.
“Mom, are you even listening?”
Victor complained: “See? You don’t care about Aunt Barbara like Dad does. Just as they say–you’re wicked.”
Ping!
Margaret had no energy to question who’d taught him those words. Her phone chimed with a tutoring class notifica- tion.
Margaret had long noticed Charles Jr.’s slipping grades. Each time she brought it up, Charles would snap that she knew nothing beyond work and shouldn’t treat their child like an employee.
Charles Jr. hadn’t realized these were his report cards. Seeing Margaret’s silence, he sneaked glances at her.
The disastrous scores made him burst into tears instantly.
Margaret frowned and put away her phone.
“Waaah!” Charles Jr. plopped onto the floor, wailing: “Mean mommy! Mean mommy…”
“Get up.”
Margaret commanded calmly from above.
“I won’t! You’re going to hit me!” Charles kicked over the nearby trash can, tears streaming as he thrashed his legs. “You finally found an excuse to hit me! Still mad about last time? I don’t want you! Don’t want you as my mom!”
Charles kept wailing between hiccups, breathless from crying.
Margaret set down her glass and checked her watch. She was running late.
She watched the child tantruming on the floor, her lips curling into a bitter smile.
“When did I say I’d hit you?”
Her voice turned icy. “Perfect. I don’t want a son like you either. So…go find Aunt Barbara to be your mom.”
Without another glance, she headed upstairs.
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Chapter 9
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Hearing this, Rivera’s screams turned even more hysterical.
But Margaret didn’t care at all. Just as she thought Rivera would go to his father Charles, a sharp pain shot through the back of her head…
With a crash, the porcelain shattered on the floor, the fallen roses as vivid as the blood on her head.
“Die. I don’t want you anymore.”
Consumed by hatred, by the time Rivera realized what he’d done, Margaret’s sanity had been swallowed by agony.
Seeing she hadn’t died instantly, Rivera wiped the panic from his face and snarled at Margaret: “Never again.”
Margaret gripped the railing, struggling to stand as blood dripped from her forehead onto the floor.
She looked at her son before her, overlapping with the demon from her dream who had come to kill her.
Despite having servants at home, Margaret woke up shivering at the stairwell.
Clutching the dried blood on her head, she thanked her luck while pulling herself up the railing, trembling as she climbed the stairs.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Barbara pressed against Charles on the bed as he comforted a weeping Margaret Jr. about Margaret’s earlier “crimes.” Everyone froze when Margaret appeared.
“Dad!”
Margaret Jr. shrunk back before dashing into Charles’s arms, wailing: “Mom tried to kill me! She said she didn’t want me anymore!”
Charles’s gaze drifted to the blood on her forehead, then to the lingering red marks on the Rivera boy. A faint crease formed between his brows: “Margaret, he’s just a child. If he misbehaves and you won’t teach him, tell me. I’ve gotten used to it over the years. No need to frighten him again and again.”
He shook his head, voice icy: “A mother like you is pure dereliction of duty.”
Margaret ignored him, leaning against the wall as she shuffled step by step toward her room.
The movement tore open her freshly formed scab, and blood trickled down anew.
“Dereliction?”
Pausing at the doorway, she stood rooted, her low voice both a murmur and an accusation: “What is duty then? Who’s the man lazing at home living off his wife? In your eyes, I’m just your cash cow. Now suddenly I’m derelict?”
“Want me to work my fingers to the bone supporting this family while also raising kids? Who do you think you are?”
The veil of hypocrisy was torn off, Charles’s pupils dilated instantly.
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