My Ex's Betrayal, My Mother's Ashes

Amira Osborne POV:

I drew back as if from a serpent. “I cannot. I am allergic to alcohol.”

It was the truth. A severe, dangerous allergy. A single mouthful could close my throat. Carter knew this better than any living soul.

Francine’s face contorted into a mask of theatrical dismay. “Oh, dear. Am I making you uncomfortable again? Perhaps I should simply depart,” she sniffled, turning to Carter with wide, beseeching eyes.

The affable host vanished from his face, replaced by something hard and unyielding. The eyes of his parents, my mother, and their guests were all upon us. “Amira, do not make a scene,” he gritted out, his voice a low growl meant only for my ears. “Just drink it.”

A memory surfaced, sharp and bitter. Years ago, at some collegiate gathering, a drunken boy had tried to force a cup of beer into my hand. Carter had struck him, a single, decisive blow, his voice ringing with a righteous fury. “She said no. Are you deaf?” He had held me for the remainder of the night, whispering that he would never allow anyone to harm me.

The irony was a physical pang in my chest.

With a trembling hand, I took the flute from Francine. I closed my eyes, held the image of my mother’s smiling face in my mind, and drained the effervescent liquid in one swallow. The taste was acidic, a harbinger of the poison now coursing through me.

It required less than five minutes. First, an unbearable itching, then the angry red welts that bloomed across my skin. My throat began to constrict, my breath catching in ragged, shallow rasps.

Panic flared in my eyes, but I could not call for a physician. I could not risk my mother seeing me in such a state, could not risk the shock to her delicate heart.

Carter, seeing the severity of my reaction, finally acted. He swept me into his arms and carried me out to his motorcar, his face a mask of strained concern.

As he sped toward the hospital, he offered no apology. He offered a defense of her. “Francine did not know, Amira. She feels dreadful about it. She is simply a very direct person, she means no harm.”

I lay slumped against the passenger door, too enfeebled to argue, the sound of his voice an abrasive rasp against my raw nerves. I wanted to scream, to laugh at the sheer, grotesque absurdity of it all. Instead, a bitter silence filled the space between us.

At the hospital, they attached me to an intravenous drip. The antihistamines performed their function, and the suffocating pressure in my chest slowly receded. Exhausted, I fell into a fitful, shallow sleep.

I awoke in the dead of night to a sharp, stinging pain in the back of my hand. My eyes fluttered open. The room was dark, silent. Carter was gone. I looked at my IV line; a dark crimson tide was flowing back up the tube. The bag had run dry.

I fumbled for the nurse’s call button clipped to my pillow. I pressed it repeatedly, but no one came. A damp chill, born not of the room's temperature but of a primal fear, settled upon my skin. The button was broken.

With a groan, I forced my weak body from the bed, the metal IV stand rattling beside me. I had to find help. I stumbled to the door and pushed, but it refused to yield. Something was propped against it from the other side.

Panic, sharp and metallic, rose in my throat. I pounded on the door, my voice a hoarse croak. “Hello? Is anyone there? Help!”

My cries were answered not by a nurse, but by a sound from the adjacent room. A woman’s breathless moan, followed by a man’s low grunt.

The sounds were sickeningly familiar.

Carter. And Francine.

They were in the room next door. He had left me, with my own blood siphoning back into my veins and the call button broken, to be with her. He had barricaded me in.

I sank to the floor, my back against the unyielding door, and listened. I called for help throughout the night, my throat growing raw, my fists bruising against the wood. And throughout the night, the sounds from the next room continued, a grotesque and constant accompaniment to my desolation.

Just as the first grey light of dawn stained the window, the obstruction outside my door was moved. Carter entered, looking refreshed and sated, a smugness in his eyes that he did not bother to conceal.

Then he saw the dried blood on the back of my hand, the tear-stains on my face. The practiced mask of solicitude dropped into place over his features. “Amira! My God, what happened? Why did you not summon a nurse?”

I simply stared at him, my heart a dead, heavy stone in my chest. I no longer possessed the energy for anger, only a profound, hollowed-out emptiness.

As he leaned over me, feigning worry, I caught her scent upon him—the same expensive, cloying perfume of gardenia and musk that always announced her presence. The smell filled my lungs, and I wretched, turning my head to heave dryly onto the cold linoleum floor.

Ignoring my distress, he bustled about, calling for doctors, performing the part of the devoted fiancé with a nauseating perfection.

Just as a nurse arrived, my telephone, lying on the bedside table, began to ring. It was the property manager from my mother’s apartment building. His voice was strained with panic.

“Ms. Osborne? You must come at once. It is your mother. There has been an accident.”