My Ex's Betrayal, My Mother's Ashes

Amira Osborne POV:

I did not weep. I did not cry out. I merely raised a hand to my throbbing cheek and regarded him, my eyes as vacant and still as a winter pond.

“You are right, Carter,” I said, my voice unnervingly level. “That was a very brave thing to do.”

My composure, the sheer absence of hysterics, seemed to disquiet him more than any outburst. He appeared to perceive, for the first time, the immense and silent distance that now separated us—a void across which my voice, my very self, could no longer travel to reach him.

He reached for my hand, his voice attempting a softer register. “Amira, listen… I am sorry. These affairs have been stressful. Let us simply endure this. We shall go and select your wedding gown tomorrow, precisely as we planned.”

I stared at a point just past his shoulder, my gaze unfocused. The wedding gown. It felt an entire lifetime ago that I had cared for such frivolities. From the instant he had proposed, from the moment I had consented to set my own aspirations aside for his, the whole enterprise had been a profound and ruinous error.

He must have sensed he was losing his hold, for he did something unprecedented. He turned to Francine, his tone uncharacteristically firm. “Francine, I believe it is best you return home. Amira and I require a interval of privacy.”

He spent the remainder of the day by my side, a perfect facsimile of a grieving, supportive fiancé. He even knelt with me before my mother’s empty memorial niche until late into the night. It was a masterful performance, but it was too little, too late.

When we finally returned to the apartment, she was there, waiting for us. Francine was huddled by our front door, wrapped in a thin blanket, shivering and affecting a look of utter terror.

She threw herself into Carter’s arms. “Carter! I was so frightened! I kept hearing noises… I think… I think it was Edie’s ghost. She is angry with me!”

He attempted to gently disengage himself, glancing nervously at me. “Francine, do not be ridiculous.”

She turned to me, her eyes wide and pleading. “Amira, you believe me, do you not? You must understand, I feel such a weight of guilt.”

A short, brittle laugh escaped me. “Oh, I am certain my mother’s spirit is near. But she would not squander her energies on you. She would be seeking out the persons who are truly responsible for her death.”

Francine’s face crumpled. She burst into loud, theatrical sobs. “I cannot remain here! I shall have a breakdown! I shall… I shall throw myself from the balcony!”

That was all it took. Carter’s resolve crumbled. He whirled on me, his eyes blazing with fury. “Why must you be so cruel? So selfish? She is distraught, and all you can do is mock her! At times I wonder why I ever imagined I could spend my life with someone so heartless.”

The argument drew the neighbors from their apartments. They stood in their doorways, watching, listening. Francine, ever the actress, played to the gallery, sobbing about how she was but a lonely widow who saw Carter as a son, and how I was a jealous, vindictive shrew.

The neighbors, of course, took her side. I heard the whispers. “Poor woman.” “That Amira is so cold.” “This is naught but petty jealousy.”

Carter did not defend me. Not once.

He simply wrapped his arm around Francine and led her inside our apartment, shutting the door firmly in my face.