When they first started the business together, Savina had stayed up night after night to help Myron; the sleeplessness left her with a chronic illness and a fragile body.
The pendant around her neck was something he had begged for at a church, where he kneeled three times and asked for forgiveness just to pray for her safety. He had said it would keep her safe.
But now, the person Myron wanted to protect was Helene, and Savina didn’t want the pendant anymore.
Generously, she unclasped the safety charm from her own neck and handed it to Helene.
Myron’s face tightened. He knew Savina disliked Helene, and that pendant had been on her for seven years; she’d never once taken it off. He had expected her to refuse. He had not expected her to agree so readily.
That lack of control unsettled him. He frowned and asked sharply, “You always said that pendant was the most precious thing you had. Why are you giving it away so easily this time?”
Savina only lifted her head and met his gaze calmly. She returned his question with one of her own. “Wasn’t it you who told me to give it to her? Am I making you unhappy by doing it?”
Her teasing tone stole the words from Myron’s mouth. He had no reply.
After she handed the pendant over, Savina turned and left.
All day long, she kept herself busy purposefully without pause.
Myron convinced himself that her generosity was a show; he believed she would come find him within half a day. But evening arrived, and she had not stepped near him once. Instead, she had servants summon him to dinner.
Savina had prepared three dishes and a soup—a stranger’s gentle economy of household skill. She was already seated at the table when Helene arrived.
“Eat,” Savina said coldly.
On the table were the kinds of dishes Dike liked.
Savina was leaving at month’s end; now was the perfect time to practice.
Myron, ignorant of that motive, only supposed she’d cooked to please him. The thought put his unsettled heart at ease.
Helene sat down, too. Myron kept filling her plate, peeling lobster for her personally.
Meanwhile, Savina’s arm tensed—once, Myron had often done it for her, but now, he no longer did.
After a few plates, the spiciness of the food made Myron furrow his brow. “You know my stomach’s sensitive. I don’t like spicy food. Why did you make so many spicy dishes tonight?”
Savina glanced at him. Dike liked spicy food; these meals were meant for Myron.
Myron was eating them only because Savina refused to waste them. The words nearly left her mouth, but Helene beat her to it.
“Myron, don’t blame her. After all, both of you aren’t childhood friends. How would she know all your likes and dislikes? Don’t worry; I’ll make some other dishes for you.” With that, Helene tugged him toward the kitchen.
She chopped, and Myron hovered, worried she might cut her finger, so he handled the knife. She steered from behind while he stir-fried, afraid hot oil might splash on her.
Savina watched, slightly dazed. Once, she’d imagined being by Myron’s side like that—cooking together—but he had always said he had no time.
She realized now it wasn’t that he had no time; it was that the person had changed.
Savina rose to leave, unwilling to stay, but when she turned, the dishes were already brought out. Myron’s voice snapped, strict and loud.
“Stop. The guest has just finished cooking. What do you mean by getting up and making a face? Sit down!”
Savina clenched her fists, ready to refuse. Helene leaned close and whispered a threat into her ear, hush and harsh.
“If you don’t behave, I’ll have people hurt your son.”
Savina’s eyes went frighteningly red in an instant. For her child, she sat back down.
Across from Myron and Helene, Savina watched the two of them—his affectionate attention, the way he fed her again and again—and felt a sharp ache in her chest.
Myron kept spooning food into Helene’s plate; Helene deliberately said, “Savina, you’re not eating. Do you not like my cooking? Myron told me you aren’t picky. Could it be that… you simply don’t like me?”
Myron’s gaze hardened. “Savina, Helene made all these dishes herself. Don’t be ungrateful.”
Looking over the table of food, Savina gave a bitter little laugh. She was allergic to most of these dishes. Apparently, even Myron had forgotten.
When she still didn’t move, he slammed his fork and spoon down on the table.
She lifted her eyes to his. “I can eat,” she said, quietly. “But in exchange, let me see my son.”
At first, he wanted to refuse; Helene had told him the child was in treatment and could not see outsiders.
But when he looked into Savina’s eyes, he could not bring himself to say no. Finally, he answered, “Fine. I agree.”
Savina picked at the food with her fork and forced it down. Not long after, a rash covered her body in angry red bumps.
If Myron cared for her even a little, he would have noticed she was unwell. But his attention never wavered from Helene.
Suddenly, the difference between being loved and not being loved was so stark.
That night, Savina’s allergic reaction worsened. She went to find antihistamines. When she reached the stairs, Helene was standing there, arms full of allergy medicine.
She sneered as Savina approached. “You. I really don’t like you. Myron is mine, yet you had his child.”
“You or that child? You both deserve to die.” With that, Helene poured the pills into the sink and flushed them down.
Savina nearly reached out to teach her a lesson, but thinking of her son in her arms, she forced herself to turn and leave.
But Helene was not done yet; she blocked Savina and threw a stack of photographs at her—photos of Alonzo being abused.
In the pictures, the boy’s limbs were bound. Supposed “treatments” showed doctors repeatedly stabbing his body with needles and scalpels!
Blood seeped, and Savina’s vision blurred red.
At that moment, something inside her snapped. She grabbed Helene’s throat with both hands and hissed, “Bitch! If you lay a finger on my son, I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
But before she could strike hard, Myron lunged forward and shoved her away, then slapped her with brutal force. “Savina, you’re hurting Helene again!”
The blow stunned Savina; her head rang. It was the first time in all those years that he had hit her.
He paid no attention to the torn skin on her arms; he was wholly focused on Helene. He scooped the woman into his arms and murmured, “Helene, I’m sorry you had to experience this. I’ll take you away with me.”
Passing by Savina, he shoved her aside. She toppled to the floor; her shoulder crashed into a table, and she could not lift her arm.
But Myron did not spare a single word of concern; he simply turned and left.
When she moved her injured arm, she felt a stab of pain that cut to the bone.
The servants, unable to stand it, stepped forward. “Ma’am, you’re badly hurt. Would you like to go to the hospital?”
She managed a bitter smile. “No, thank you. I don’t need to.”
She forced herself upright and crawled back to her room. The first thing she did was call Dike.
“Dike,” she said, voice tight, “I know you have people in the country. Help me shorten the cooling-off period. I want to leave in seven days.”
