Chapter 2

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes and said coldly, "Are you threatening me?"

I didn't hide it. I just nodded. "That's right. I'm threatening you."

Bartholomew sneered. "Go ahead and try."

"Let me make this crystal clear. You're staying here today. I don't care who shows up."

Just then someone came running from the kitchen. "We need more hands out here. There aren't enough people to carry the dishes."

Bartholomew hauled me to my feet. "Go. Go carry the dishes."

He shoved me all the way into the kitchen.

The Donaldsons had set out ten tables for the birthday banquet.

They'd hired cooks, but there still weren't enough hands.

So Bartholomew put me to work, running back and forth to help with everything.

Everyone else sat at the tables, eating, drinking, chatting.

I was soaked in sweat, my hands and feet aching, and not one person cared.

As if it were only right and proper that I should slave and suffer here.

Plate after plate came out scalding hot, and I loaded them onto a tray and gritted my teeth and carried them to every table.

At first Bartholomew kept watching me, but once he saw me carrying dishes like an obedient little thing, he relaxed and went off to drink and swap boasts with the others.

I took the chance to slip out of the Donaldson house, hailed an Uber, and headed straight for the hospital.

As for the Donaldsons' banquet... they could do whatever they wanted with it.

When I reached the ward, my father was waiting for me, his eyes rimmed red.

He was the only one at my mother's side.

He said in a low voice, "Your mother took a bad turn very fast. Everyone else is still on the way. I don't know if they'll make it in time."

I nodded, holding back tears.

There was no time to tell him about Bartholomew. I threw myself down at my mother's bedside.

She lay there, worn to skin and bone, and the sight of her sent the tears streaming down my face.

She seemed to have already slipped into a coma.

I held her hand and called to her softly. "Mom. Mom..."

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

They were dull, wandering blankly over everything around her.

But the moment they caught on me, a spark came back into them.

With great effort she reached out and gently stroked my head. "Charlene. You came."

I bent down so she wouldn't have to lift her arm so far.

My mother said quietly, "I'm all right. Don't you worry. Everyone goes through this in the end, sickness and dying, all of it."

"As long as you're doing well, I can rest easy."

At that I broke down and sobbed out loud.

It had always been this way, since I was small. However much she suffered, however much she was wronged, she never dwelled on it.

She only ever cared whether I was doing well, whether I was happy.

She was the person who loved me most in this world.

And now she was leaving too.

My mother drew a breath and asked in a low voice, "You and Bartholomew, you're doing fine?"

I couldn't bear to let her go carrying that worry, so I lied. "We're doing fine."

She nodded faintly. "Good. That's good."

But right then, a hand seized me by the hair and dragged me down to the floor.

I struggled up and saw that it was Bartholomew.

He'd come with a pack of the younger Donaldsons.

Right there at my mother's bedside, he slapped me across the face without a word. "It's my father's birthday. What are you crying for?"

"I told you not to come see some dying woman, and you had to come anyway. Who exactly are you inviting bad luck onto, huh?"