Charlotte dropped gracefully into the seat beside Timon, looping her arm around his like she owned it.
When her eyes landed on me, her lips twisted into a pout.
“Mr. Salvador is overreacting again. It’s just a mild cold, but he banned me from working or drinking,” she said, leaning closer to him. “I practically begged him to let me attend tonight.”
Timon chuckled softly, tapping her nose with a mock scolding expression.
“If I didn’t keep an eye on you, you'd skip your meds and then complain that you’re dying over a sniffle.”
The two of them looked like a scene out of a romantic drama: whispers, laughter, gentle touches.
For a moment, I simply watched. There was something unfamiliar in the way Timon looked at her. Tenderness. Amusement. Care. All things he never offered me—not even when I stood beside him on our wedding day.
I clutched the divorce papers inside my coat pocket. Oddly, I didn’t feel heartbreak. I felt… relief.
At the upscale restaurant, Timon greeted the corporate partners with his usual charm before gesturing toward the woman at his side.
“This is Charlotte Winsley—our Chief Operating Officer.” Charlotte flashed a flawless smile and adjusted the sparkling diamond necklace around her throat. When he turned to me, his tone shifted. Polite, but distant. “And this is Marian. She’s… Charlotte's personal assistant.”
That word clanged louder than it should’ve. Assistant.
The senior partner's brows twitched in recognition.
“Ah. I remember her,” he said with thinly veiled disdain. “She served time, didn’t she? Some kind of car accident where she killed someone, yes? Mr. Salvador is quite... loyal to keep her employed.”
Timon froze beside Charlotte. He glanced at me briefly, just enough to register the tension, then forced a bland smile. “Life has its complications.”
To my left, Cedrik sat proudly—Vice President of Salvador Holdings & Corporation—perfectly at ease in his polished navy suit.
He laughed with Charlotte like they shared a private joke, refilling her glass with water, pulling her chair in, handing her napkins.
Attentive. Protective. Affectionate.
Like she was his mother.
Not once did he look my way.
Not once did he ask if I had eaten.
“Honestly,” Cedrik said with a relaxed chuckle to the table, “if my dad had married Charlotte first, life would've been a lot smoother. No drama, just grace and strategy.”
Charlotte smiled sweetly, laying her hand gently over his. “You’re such a good son,” she whispered.
“My daughter already calls her Mama Charlotte,” Cedrik added with pride. “It feels… right.”
I said nothing. He didn’t even glance at me. No remorse. No shame. I said nothing.
During the meeting, Timon and Charlotte sat close enough their shoulders touched. Every now and then, he’d glance at me, waiting—expecting me to offer to drink on Charlotte’s behalf. He knew she didn’t want to touch a drop in front of these investors. She wanted to look delicate, cared for.
I stayed silent.
Across the table, Timon looked as if he might stand, but I rose first and excused myself to the restroom.
As I stepped out of the stall, I found Charlotte standing at the sink with her arms folded, lips curled in smug amusement.
She didn’t waste time.
“You know,” she said, watching me through the mirror, “if I were you, I wouldn’t even have the nerve to show up tonight. It’s tragic, really. Being pitied by your own husband in front of strangers.”
I calmly turned on the tap, washing my hands without meeting her gaze.
“That’s not your concern, Ms. Winsley.”
“Oh, but it is.” She stepped closer, eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Still wearing those old shoes? Isn’t that the same blazer you wore when you got out of prison?”
I didn’t flinch.
She smiled, cruel and condescending.
“I forgot. Timon probably spent his entire wardrobe budget on me. Custom Valentino. Limited edition. You wouldn’t know the brand even if you Googled it.”
Her voice dropped lower.
“He tells me everything, Marian. Including how your son wishes I was his real mother. Actually, he said he has no plan of letting you out of the prison. That was the safest place for someone like you.”
That one landed deeper than I expected. I wanted to slap her. I wanted to scream. But I forced myself to stay still until her voice dropped into a whisper, intimate and sharp.
“Do you want to know the truth, Marian?”
She waited. I didn’t respond. She leaned in closer, her reflection almost brushing mine.
“Cedrik was never your son. He was mine.”
My heart slowed.
“W-what..?”
She smiled wider.
“You gave birth to a boy that night, yes—but he didn’t make it. Timon panicked. I was in the same ward, and I had a baby the same night. Cedrik was Timon's son. Our son. Timon swapped them. Your son died. Mine lived. Cedrik’s mine.”
She tilted her head, watching for my reaction like it was a game.
“I’ve always planned to tell him… someday. Maybe now’s the time.”
A twisted laugh escaped her lips.
“Funny, right? You did ten years, thinking you were protecting your family. But it was never yours to protect.”
I stared at the mirror, not at her, but at myself—barely breathing.
And in that moment… I knew.
I had known for years.
That quiet instinct I buried deep inside me. The way Cedrik never really looked at me the same after he turned five. How he always lit up more when Charlotte was around. How she used to show up at my house when we were still friends, arms full of gifts, home-cooked meals, and imported toys. Always acting like she was doing me a favor.
But she never let Cedrik go.
She clutched him every time she visited, like he was hers.
He clung to her, too.
I remembered one afternoon vividly—how she insisted on taking him to his school play when I got called into a late shift.
“Don’t worry, I’ll cheer loud enough for the both of us.”
She did.
She even brought a banner with his name.
And when I arrived late and out of breath, Cedrik had already run into her arms.
I brushed it off back then.
Told myself it was just Charlotte being extra and she just lost her son. Told myself it didn’t matter, because I was still his mother.
But now… her words made everything snap into place like a cruel puzzle.
I felt it all at once.
The betrayal. The loss. The ache that had no name for ten long years. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, refusing to cry.
The taste of blood was the only thing that reminded me I still had control.
That I was still standing.
Charlotte watched me in silence, waiting for a reaction.
But I gave her none. I dried my hands. Smoothed my coat. And walked past her like she didn’t exist.
