Tilda laughed. "You're asking the wrong person, sweetheart. That's a question for Mick."
"You say there's no grudge between us? That's cute. That's your version."
"But if you weren't squatting on the Mrs. Weiss title, I'd have married him years ago. You think I wanted to hide like a dirty secret this whole time?"
"Oh, right—" Tilda added, like something had just come back to her.
"You thought that surveillance footage was real? Mick and I paid someone to fake it. And those ultra-thin condom wrappers in the trash? I made that up on the spot. And you actually fell for it."
"These past two years, Mick and I were the real husband and wife. While you were rotting away in your miserable little life, we couldn't have been happier."
My head snapped up. I locked onto Tilda and tightened my grip on the fruit knife. "Then you can pay for it with your life."
Tilda shrieked in terror, but the blade never reached her. Someone seized my wrist and wrenched it back.
"Desiree, have you lost your mind?"
Mick's face was white as he stared at me, pulling Tilda behind him on instinct.
"You kill her and you go to prison. Is that what you want? You want to die that badly?"
I let out a cold, brittle laugh. "I don't have much of a life left anyway."
Mick looked at me, hesitated, then spoke again.
"Desiree. Have you been thinking this whole time that you have cancer?"
"That was fake, too."
"I paid a doctor to write you a fake diagnosis. You think just punishing you was enough? I wanted you to believe you were dying. I wanted you to live every single day wishing you were already dead."
Each word landed somewhere I'd already stopped being able to feel. I stared at him, numb past the point of pain, my thoughts too slow and too far behind to catch up.
"What did you just say?"
"Fake?"
From behind Mick, Tilda snickered. "Mick, look. She really is an idiot."
"Did you even read that diagnosis?"
"Every stamp on it was forged. The signature was completely made up. And you just swallowed the whole thing."
I stood there, rigid, my face drained of color, my lips moving without producing a single sound.
"All of it was a lie."
So even my cancer diagnosis had been staged. They'd bribed the doctor themselves.
Just to make me feel the despair of a terminal illness.
Mick Weiss, you really did think of everything. All to avenge your precious little nanny.
"Mick Weiss, you're heartless."
But before the words even left my mouth, the bodyguards behind me shoved me out.
"Blood's done. You're useless now. Get out."
They pushed me without mercy. I hit the ground, and blood ran freely from my knees.
"Ma'am, here."
Miles Chavez walked over with an umbrella in one hand and a fistful of tissues in the other, unhurried, like this was a routine pickup.
"Mr. Weiss's orders. Punishment's complete. I'm here to bring you home."
A few days later, Tilda was discharged and came back to the house. She made a point of carrying the baby right up to me.
"Desiree, you probably haven't met my son, have you?"
"You were the one who wanted me to get rid of him, remember? Lucky for me, Mick played favorites. He hid me away in a villa to carry the baby to term."
"Look how big my boy's gotten."
I stared at the child's face—and Tilda shoved Benny into the pond.
"Desiree!"
Her scream hit before I could move.
"If you have a problem, take it out on me! How dare you touch my child!"
She plunged into the water after him.
I hadn't moved. I was still standing in the same spot, hands empty, not understanding a single thing that had just happened.
Mick came at me from across the room and slammed me to the ground.
"Desiree, I thought two years of this would've beaten that out of you. But you're the same vicious, arrogant bitch you always were."
"No—worse. You'd go after an innocent child."
"He's one. He's a baby. He doesn't know a damn thing. You should be dead, Desiree!"
They rushed over and pulled the baby out of the water.
They called in the best private physician in the country to look after him.
The doctor said the child was fine, just a little chilled. Mick's face went ice-cold anyway, and he made me kneel at the doorway as punishment.
When Benny's fever hit 39 degrees, Mick grabbed the ashtray off the table and hurled it at my forehead. He cursed me without stopping, every word meant to break something.
"You really are hard to kill, Desiree."
"Two years of this, and you're still not dead?"
"Go die. Why won't you just die?"
And I, numb to the bone, nodded.
"Okay."
But my voice was swallowed almost instantly by Tilda's.
"Mick, hold Benny, please, he needs you right now. His fever's spiking again..."
I got to my feet and walked slowly toward the window. I opened it. The movement drew everyone's attention, and they all turned to look at me.
Even Mick. His eyes went wide, his face drained white. "What are you doing?"
My face was already the color of paper. I looked at him and smiled, just barely.
"Granting your wish."
"I'll go die."
And I jumped. No hesitation. I threw myself out.
"Desiree!"
Mick lunged for me, white-faced, but his fingers didn't catch so much as the edge of my sleeve.
