Memorizing Baking Rules

Margaret’s smile widened. She rose and stepped toward Larry, reaching to touch his disabled left hand. “You see, Larry? You still love me. If you regret marrying her, then get a divorce. Leave that simpleton and come back to me. My father’s company—the whole Miller Group—will be yours.”

Divorce.

Even in my simple-minded state, the word struck a primal fear in me. I clutched desperately at the hem of Larry’s shirt, shaking my head with all my strength.

Larry didn’t look at me. He only shook off Margaret’s hand, his gaze turning to ice. “My life is none of your business.”

“Really?” The smile vanished from Margaret’s face, replaced by something cold and calculating. “Don’t be ungrateful, Larry. Do you honestly think you still have a choice? How much can you possibly earn delivering takeout each month? Enough for her medicine? Enough to buy back that old house your parents left you?”

Larry flinched, hard.

That house was his last link to his parents—a wound that had never closed.

“Just divorce her,” Margaret went on, her voice a lethal whisper, “and I’ll buy the house back for you right away. I’ll give you fifty million on top of that. Larry, don’t be a fool. What’s the point in dragging this out with her?”

The people around us joined in, their voices a low, ugly chorus. They called me a burden, a millstone around Larry’s neck, his bad luck charm—the ruin of all his prospects.

I couldn’t make out the words, but I read them on their lips, saw them in their scornful eyes.

Terrified, I hid behind Larry, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face.

Larry never spoke. He just stood there, silently enduring it all.

The party ended in an ugly, strained silence.

On the way home, Larry walked ahead in furious quiet, his strides long and hurried. I couldn’t keep up, stumbled, and fell, scraping my knee. Blood seeped through the torn skin.

He stopped and turned to look at me. There was no concern in his eyes, only a thick, impenetrable frustration.

He yanked me to my feet and dragged me roughly back to that dim, damp basement room.

The door slammed shut behind us.

Rummaging in the corner, he pulled out a brown glass bottle and slammed it down on the floor between us.

“Drink it.” He pointed at the bottle, his eyes a terrifying red. “Olivia, you don’t want a divorce, right? Drink this, and we’ll stay together.”

A skull and crossbones was printed on the label. I couldn’t read, but I knew—instinctively—to fear it.

Poison.

I scrambled backward, shaking my head wildly.

“What, scared now?” Larry let out a cold laugh. Step by step, he advanced, backing me into the corner. “You love me so much, don’t you? Said you’d do anything for me. Isn’t that what you told me seven years ago?”

He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Now all I’m asking is for you to drink this, and we’ll never be apart. Drink it!”

His grip was painfully tight.

I looked into his wild eyes, saw the despair and agony buried deep inside, and suddenly, my fear melted away.

Trembling, I reached for the bottle.

Just as my fingertips were about to touch the glass, Larry suddenly swept his arm out, knocking it to the floor.

Brown liquid splashed everywhere, filling the air with a sharp, acrid smell.

“You idiot!” He shoved me away, his voice cracking like a sob. “Who told you to actually drink it! You stupid—stupid fool!”

I crashed into the wall, my forehead blooming red on impact.

I stared at him, stunned.

He sank to the floor, crouched there like a child, and began pounding the concrete with his good left hand, his body shaking with silent, choked sobs.

Slowly, I crawled over and wrapped my arms around him from behind.

There’s a scar on my temple. Years ago, Larry got into a fight, and I stepped in front of a brick meant for him.

Back then, he’d held me just like this and cried.

He’d said, “Olivia, you’re so foolish.”

He’d said, “Olivia, I’ll protect you from now on.”

But now, the man who was supposed to protect me wanted me dead.