After My Husband Hid Our Son From Me

Demi came down the stairs holding her arm. Blood ran between her fingers. Not a lot. Just enough.

She was crying. Soft, breathless sounds. The kind that made people want to help.

Rylan was in the foyer reading something on his phone. He looked up. His face changed.

"What happened."

"I'm sorry." Demi's voice shook. "I didn't want to bother you. I was just—" She swayed slightly. Rylan caught her elbow. "She cornered me in the bathroom. She had glass. She said—"

"Where is she."

"Upstairs. Rylan, I don't think she meant—"

"Where."

Demi pointed toward the east wing. Rylan pulled out his phone. Two calls. Short. Clipped.

I was in my room when the head of security arrived. Marcus. Forty-something. Former military. He'd opened car doors for me for six years. He'd carried my shopping bags. He'd wished me happy birthday.

He didn't look at me now.

"Mrs. Cole. Mr. Cole needs to see you downstairs."

I followed him. My burned hand throbbed. Three weeks since the mirror incident. The bandages were off but the skin was still angry. Red and tight and shiny.

Wait. No. That wasn't right. The burn hadn't happened yet.

I shook my head. Focused.

Marcus led me through the hall. Down the back stairs. Into the kitchen.

Rylan was standing by the stove. He'd taken off his jacket. Rolled up his sleeves. There was a pot on the burner. Steam rising.

"Show me your hands," he said.

I held them out. Steady. Clean. No glass. No blood.

He looked at them for a long time. Then he looked at Marcus.

"Hold her."

Marcus moved behind me. He was efficient. Professional. One hand on my shoulder. The other catching my right wrist. He pulled my arm forward. Pressed my palm flat against the granite countertop.

I tried to pull back. His grip tightened.

"Rylan—"

"You threatened her," he said quietly. "In my house. After everything I've done to help you."

"I didn't—"

He picked up the pot. Chicken broth. I could smell it. Rosemary. Thyme. The same recipe the cook had been making since before I moved in.

He poured it over my hand.

The pain was white. Immediate. Total. It erased thought. It erased everything except the feeling of my skin splitting open under boiling liquid.

I screamed once. High and sharp. Then I bit down on it. Swallowed it. Because screaming gave him something. And I was done giving him anything.

Marcus let go. I pulled my hand back. Cradled it against my chest. The skin was already blistering. Back of the hand. Three fingers. The webbing between thumb and index finger.

Rylan set the pot down. He wiped his hands on a towel.

"If you ever touch her again," he said, "it'll be worse."

He walked out.

Marcus stayed long enough to make sure I was standing. Then he left too.

I ran cold water over my hand. It didn't help. The pain went bone-deep. I wrapped it in a clean kitchen towel and went back upstairs.

No one stopped me. No one called a doctor.

I sat on my bed and stared at the towel turning pink.

Twelve across. Sixteen deep. One hundred ninety-two tiles.

I could wait.

The next morning, Demi brought Finley to breakfast. She did that now. Brought him into shared spaces. Let me see him. Never close enough to touch.

He sat beside her. He was wearing a green shirt. His hair was combed. He looked at his plate.

Demi cut his pancakes into small pieces. She talked to him softly. He nodded.

I sat at the far end of the table. My hand was bandaged now. I'd done it myself. Gauze and medical tape from the guest bathroom.

Finley glanced at me once. Just once. Then he looked away fast.

"Finley," Demi said gently. "Do you want to tell your father about your spelling test?"

Rylan looked up from his coffee. "You had a test?"

Finley nodded.

"He got a hundred," Demi said. She touched his shoulder. He leaned into her slightly. "We're very proud."

Rylan smiled. "That's my boy."

I watched Finley's face. He didn't smile back. He just looked at his plate and moved a piece of pancake around with his fork.

Demi caught my eye. She smiled. Warm. Gentle.

I looked away.

After breakfast, I followed them at a distance. Down the hall. Into the conservatory. Demi set up Finley's workbooks on the table by the window. He climbed into the chair. She sat beside him.

I stayed in the doorway.

"Finley," I said quietly.

He didn't turn around.

Demi looked up. Her expression was soft. Concerned. "Selene. I don't think—"

"I just want to say good morning."

Finley's shoulders went tight. He gripped his pencil harder.

Demi put her hand over his. "It's all right, sweetheart. You don't have to."

"Don't have to what," I said.

She looked at me. Her eyes were kind. Sympathetic. "He's still adjusting. The doctors said it's normal for him to be afraid after—" She stopped. Shook her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Afraid of what."

Finley turned then. Just his head. Just enough for me to see his face.

"You're sick," he said. His voice was small. Careful. Like he was repeating something he'd been told to memorize. "Demi says you can't help it. But I'm not supposed to be alone with you."

The words landed clean. Right in the center of my chest.

I didn't move. Didn't speak.

Demi touched his hair. "That's enough, sweetheart. Let's focus on your reading."

Finley turned back to his workbook.

I stood in the doorway for another thirty seconds. Then I walked away.

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed. I pressed my burned hand against the cool glass of the window. The pain was still there. Deeper now. A low throb that didn't stop.

I held it there until the trembling stopped.

Then I pulled out the burner phone. I checked the message from my lawyer.

Papers filed. Waiting on your signal.

I deleted it. I put the phone back in the coat lining.

I could wait.