To support his career, I bankrolled his company, pulled strings, opened every door I could.
No matter how much I gave, all I ever got in return was indifference.
At a college reunion before the new year, Zara showed up.
Morton's eyes went red the moment he saw her.
He blocked drinks for Zara. He served food onto Zara's plate. He drove Zara home.
As if the wife sitting right beside him didn't exist.
A knock at the door dragged me out of my thoughts.
I opened it to find Zara Fox standing there, her face the picture of wounded innocence.
"Viola, you've got it all wrong about Morton. There's really nothing between us."
She reached for my hand. I stepped back.
She lost her balance and crumpled to the floor with all the subtlety of a soap opera actress.
Morton, who had followed her up, saw the whole thing.
Without a word, he charged at me and shoved me hard.
My arm slammed into the sharp corner of the entryway cabinet, tearing a long gash down my skin.
Morton didn't spare me a single glance. He bent down, scooped Zara into his arms, and carried her out.
Zara rested her head against his shoulder and blinked at me over it, slow and deliberate. Taunting.
I was dabbing antiseptic on the wound when Morton came back.
His eyes caught the streak of blood on my arm. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, and his voice softened by a fraction.
"Sorry. I lost my temper. Let me help you with that."
"No need," I said flatly. "I can handle it myself."
The cotton swab in Morton's hand froze in midair. His expression darkened.
"Then again, you started it, didn't you? Zara came here to smooth things over so we wouldn't fight, and this is how you treat her? How petty can you be?"
I looked him dead in the eye. "I told you I never touched her. She was putting on an act. Do you believe me?"
Morton froze for a second, then let out a derisive laugh. "I trust Zara's character."
The answer I'd expected. I tugged at the corner of my mouth and went back to applying ointment to my bruises.
My indifference made Morton feel ignored, and his temper flared instantly.
"Viola, what gives you the right to give me attitude? Haven't I done enough for you lately?"
I looked at his self-righteous expression and almost laughed.
Three years of marriage, and he had never shown me an ounce of warmth.
Yet because Zara had tossed out a few hollow words about wanting us to get along, he'd graced me with a rare stretch of civility.