Fate Rolls Dark by Mark Twain 3
Chapter 3
Ethan came home the next morning as I was at the kitchen island, sipping cold brew and scrolling through my laptop. A company-wide email about a long-term assignment in Seattle glowed on the screen.
A long, hot bath was the only thing that thawed the ice in my veins. As I sank into the bubbles, I finally stopped shaking. I bandaged my weeping feet, swallowed my pills, and fell into bed, into a dreamless sleep so deep it felt like vanishing.
He rushed out. My laptop pinged. A message from the photography studio.
I was about to type *Cancel everything*, when I paused. A slow, cold smile touched my lips. I copied Chloe’s social media handle and pasted it into the reply.
This time, I just watched.
He crossed the room in two strides, his hand closing around my wrist. “Lauren, about yesterday, I—”
I drained my coffee, stood, and walked to the fridge. I pulled out the lunchbox I’d packed last night—turkey club on sourdough, his favorite chips, a pickle. Old habits die hard. Except this time, I opened the trash can lid.
I hit send, then opened the Seattle assignment application form and began to fill it out.
*”Hi Lauren, we’re so sorry about the interruption yesterday. We’d love to reschedule your session. When are you available?”*
He let go of my wrist as if it burned him and answered. “Hey, you.” His voice shifted, becoming light, soothing. “Don’t cry. Just stay put, okay? I’m coming to get you.”
I didn’t look up. “I don’t have a phone.”
“I have a gap in my schedule today around one,” he said, pausing at the door, his tone magnanimous. “We can have lunch. Don’t be late.”
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching me. “You didn’t call,” he said finally, his voice low and accusing.
*”The bride has changed. Please contact her for all future scheduling: @ChloeRose.”*
His phone rang. Not his regular ringtone, but the specific, chimesque melody he’d set for Chloe. In the past, that sound was a knife to my heart. I’d snatch the phone, beg, cry, hit “decline” over and over. It always ended the same: him wrenching it away and leaving.
This was his version of an olive branch. His *concession* after a fight about Chloe. He was allowing me the privilege of his company, expecting me to be grateful.
He turned to leave, then saw the lunchbox in my hand. Without a word, he took it from me. He had chronic stomach issues. For five years, I’d made his lunches. He’d come to expect it, like sunrise.
I shook my head, kicking off my ruined shoes. “It’s too late, Maria. It can wait.”
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