Chapter Two

Sloane's POV

Freya crouched down and pulled Poppy into her arms, chin resting on top of her head — easy, practiced, like they'd done it a thousand times. Poppy tilted her face up, grinning so hard her eyes disappeared.

"If Mom and Daddy really divorce, you can be my new mom!"

"Freya takes me for manicures," Poppy announced, ticking things off on her fingers. "She buys me strawberry ice cream. She lets me watch cartoons for the whole afternoon. She never makes me do ballet or drill vocabulary words—"

She spun toward me, eyes bright and cruel.

"You're always making me practice stuff and dragging me to bed at nine. What's the point? Freya says kids are supposed to have a happy childhood."

I didn't answer. That only encouraged her.

"And Freya's a real doctor — smart, kind, actually good at things. What are you? You couldn't even speak out loud. Seven whole languages, and Daddy couldn't stand the sound of your voice."

All those nights I'd said no to ice cream. Nine o'clock bedtimes. The schoolbag packed by schedule, the ballet slippers folded just so. In her eyes, every bit of it had been a reason to resent me.

I couldn't compete with Freya.

But if not for eight years of silence — I used to stand in international conference halls and help people from opposite ends of the world understand each other, in seven different languages. Back then, I thought I had my whole life ahead of me.

Freya rose to her feet on cue. She gave Poppy's shoulder a light pat, then turned to me with a perfectly calibrated apologetic smile.

"Sloane, don't take it personally. Kids say what they mean." She held out the white tulips. "These are for you both. Happy anniversary — you and Alaric."

Then she tilted her head at Poppy, voice going soft and instructive, like she was guest-lecturing a parenting class.

"That said... Poppy and I do have a special bond. You know how it is at this age. Push too hard, and they just pull away."

Every word was gentle. Every word was an indictment.

Alaric lounged in his chair, arms crossed, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. He didn't stop Poppy. He didn't say a single word on my behalf.

"Since Poppy would rather have Freya as her mother," I said, "then let her."

I looked at Freya directly. "You're right. I'm too strict. I'm not a good mother. So why don't the good mother step in."

Poppy's smile died on her face. Freya's held for about two seconds before something cracked beneath it — her expression going pale, then ashen. Alaric sat up sharply, staring at me like he was seeing me clearly for the first time.

The silence didn't last long. Alaric cleared his throat.

"Alright, that's enough. Freya's here, let's just eat."

Same flat tone. Same erasure. As if the last five minutes had simply not occurred.

He'd always been like that. Anything he didn't want to deal with — texts, conversations, inconvenient truths — he looked right through, like they weren't there.

I had waited eight anniversaries for roses. Not once.

Last month Freya offhandedly mentioned she liked peonies. The next morning the vase was full of them.

The winter before, she said she was craving mulled wine. He remembered: two cinnamon sticks, three cloves, orange slices with the seeds removed. Meanwhile, I'd had migraines for seven days straight. He never once brought me a single Advil.

Poppy slid her roasted chicken onto Freya's plate. Alaric poured her a glass of sparkling water. The two of them fell into easy, laughing conversation — a cozy little family of three, celebrating something. I stood just outside the orbit of it. Invisible. Surplus. Like a piece of old furniture someone had pushed into a corner and forgotten.

Freya prodded her salad with a fork, frowning faintly. "The texture on this is a bit off..."

Alaric didn't even turn around. "Sloane, make Freya a new salad."

Casual as a request to a housekeeper.

"I'm busy."

He turned then. Eyebrows pulled together, displeasure plain on his face.

"She's your cousin. Is this really how you treat your family?"

I met his eyes. "Funny — I thought my voice gave you headaches. You've been listening to me talk all evening and I haven't seen you flinch once."

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"While your ears are still working," I said, setting down my glass, each word deliberate, "I'll say it one more time."

"I want a divorce."