Mara
We walked to the right wing in silence. The kind that didn’t ask to be broken.
Darian wasn’t at the table. Martha was.
Her gaze landed on me like a curse. Cold, calculated, almost smug. I didn’t flinch. Not anymore. Not now that I knew she was the one who orchestrated this mess—this sham of a marriage, this rerouting of my life. The woman had no shame, only strategy. And the crime? Being poor. That was enough to make me disposable.
If I’d been the one pregnant by Darian, she’d have dragged me to the nearest clinic herself. No doubt.
In some twisted way, I was grateful I hadn’t ended up with her son. As much as it hurt, avoiding that as a mother-in-law was a small mercy.
“Good morning, Luna Nighthorn,” I said, voice flat, cold. She didn’t reply. I didn’t care.
Lucian served my
