Chapter 3

Vivian's POV

By the time I finished wrapping up things at the lab and briefed Daniel on the next steps, it was past eleven at night when I finally got home.

The light in Allen's room on the second floor was still on.

He should have been asleep hours ago. An uneasy feeling rose in my chest. I took a slow breath and walked in.

A pair of red pointed-toe heels sat in the middle of the entryway — sharp stilettos, taking up space as though they had every right to be there.

From the living room came the sound of a woman and a child laughing.

I stood still for a moment, then walked toward it.

In the warm light, Dylan was lounging on the long sofa, relaxed and unguarded. Hazel sat beside him in a silk robe, one person's width between them. Allen was curled in Hazel's lap, his head resting against her chest, eyes fixed on the television screen, laughing softly.

The sight hit me like something I hadn't braced for. I stood there a half second too long before forcing myself to walk in.

The sound of my footsteps turned all three heads. Allen looked over first. The moment he saw me, the laughter vanished from his face and something undisguised took its place — contempt.

"Why are you back?"

Dylan looked up too, brow creasing slightly. "This late."

I didn't respond to either of them. I walked straight toward the stairs. "I'm here to grab a few things. I'm leaving for a work trip."

"A work trip?" Dylan's tone shifted toward suspicion. "The lab keeps you this busy and you're still traveling?"

"What happens at my lab is not something I need to report to Mr. Hudson." I didn't turn around.

"Stop right there." Dylan got to his feet. "Allen was hospitalized with an allergic reaction and you didn't bother to show up — what kind of mother does that?"

What kind of mother?

I stopped. I turned around. "What would showing up have changed? Would you have asked Hazel to leave? Would you have admitted it was your failure that put him there?"

Hazel was on her feet immediately, her voice arriving ahead of her expression — gentle, placating, already heavy with the setup of an apology. "Vivian, please don't blame Mr. Hudson. This is entirely my fault." Her eyes filled with tears in an instant. "I genuinely didn't know that cake contained gluten. The bakery told me everything was fully organic—"

"Didn't know?" I let out a quiet, flat laugh. "Allen's teachers at nursery school know he has a severe gluten allergy. You are his father's chief assistant. You have spent more time around this child than most people. You didn't know?"

"I had told Hazel," Dylan said, cutting in, impatient. "She was overwhelmed that day and it slipped past her. People make mistakes. You, on the other hand, couldn't be bothered to go to the hospital out of spite. When did you get so petty, Vivian?"

I looked at this man — five years of marriage — and for the first time tonight his face felt like a stranger's.

"I'm petty?" My voice was quiet, but underneath it something that had been compressed for a very long time was starting to tremble. "Dylan, Allen told me to get out in front of everyone. He threw food at me. You didn't correct him — you told me I was overreacting. Now he ends up in the hospital because of your negligence and your assistant's carelessness, and somehow I'm the petty one?"

"What exactly do you want?" His impatience was out in the open now. "Hazel apologized. Allen is fine. How long are you going to drag this out?"

"I want her out of this house." I said it slowly, one word at a time. "Now."

A short silence fell over the room.

Then Allen wrenched himself free of Hazel's arms, jumped barefoot off the sofa, and shoved me — hard.

"You leave! This is my house! You don't get to talk to Hazel like that!"

I wasn't ready for it. I staggered backward, my lower back catching the edge of the stair railing with a dull, heavy impact.

"Allen!" My voice went up before I could stop it. "I'm your mother. Is this how you treat your mother?"

Something in those words set him off entirely. He lunged for the coffee table, grabbed the glass fruit bowl, and hurled it at me.

"Get out! You're a bad person!"

I twisted to the side. The bowl hit the wall behind me and exploded — glass flying outward in every direction. A sharp fragment caught my bare arm on the way down. Blood welled up immediately.

Hazel crossed the room quickly and pulled Allen into her arms, positioning herself between him and me like she was shielding him from a threat. "It's okay. I'm right here. You're safe." Then she turned to look at me, her expression shifting into something reproachful. "Vivian, you can't go at him like that. He's a child. He doesn't know better. Can't you just give him a little grace?"

Dylan came over, checked Allen first, and only then moved his attention to me. He saw the blood on my arm. His brow tightened. "He's five years old," he said. "Why are you squaring off with a five-year-old? He doesn't know what he's doing. Do you?"

I looked down at the thin line carved across my arm, blood spreading slowly along the contour of my skin, a stark red thread against pale.

I thought about Allen at three years old, running too fast in the park and scraping his knee open. I had scooped him up and rushed him to the emergency room, half out of my mind. During the bandaging, he had kicked out in pain and caught me under the chin. My first instinct had been to check his foot.

That was then.

Now, my son had thrown a glass bowl at my face, and my husband was asking whether I understood the concept of personal responsibility.

"You're right." I repeated the words quietly. And then, unexpectedly, I laughed. "I don't know what I'm doing."

I crouched down and began picking up the pieces of glass from the floor, one by one.

"What are you doing?" Dylan asked.

"Cleaning up. So no one steps on it." I didn't look up. My hands moved like something automatic.

A jagged edge found my fingertip. Blood dropped onto the white marble floor, vivid against the pale surface. I felt nothing. I kept going.

Hazel guided Allen toward the stairs, her voice soft. "Let's go get you cleaned up, okay, sweetheart?" Allen walked past me, pausing just long enough to make a short, contemptuous sound.

I gathered the last of the glass, stood, dropped it in the trash, and pressed a paper napkin against my finger. The blood soaked through in seconds.

"First-aid kit's under the TV cabinet." Dylan's voice came from behind me. Stiff. Reluctant. He didn't move.

I didn't answer. I went upstairs.

"Where are you going?" He followed.

"Getting my things. I told you — I have a work trip."

I reached the master bedroom and put my hand on the door handle. It was locked.

I turned to look at him. "Where's the key?"

Dylan's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "Hazel hasn't been sleeping well lately. The guest room upstairs gets street noise. I had her move into the master bedroom for the time being."

The air went out of me for just a moment.

I was still his legal wife. And Hazel was already sleeping in my bedroom.

How very efficient of them.

"Open the door. I need to get my things." I was too tired to fight.

Dylan's jaw tightened. "Hazel mentioned the master bedroom felt too cluttered. I had Bonnie move your things to the storage room downstairs."

I turned to face him fully.

He took half a step back on instinct.

In that moment I knew what he had seen in my eyes — not rage, not grief. Only a silence that was very cold and went very deep.

"Dylan," I said. A smile surfaced from somewhere I hadn't expected. "You really are something."

He pressed his lips together. Said nothing.

I had no desire to spend another second in this house. I turned and went back downstairs, my steps not entirely steady.

Dylan followed, his voice dropping into something that carried a warning. "Enough of this, Vivian."