The Wife He Forgot Was The One He Loved Most Chapter 09
Vivienne asked to meet me. She named the coffee shop where I’d signed the separation agreement.
The message came from an unknown number: Show up, or I go to the press about how Stella orchestrated the accident. What do you think—Ethan Sinclair’s own sister deliberately harmed his ex-girlfriend. Nice headline, isn’t it?
I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then replied: I’ll be there.
Chloe found out and insisted on coming with me. I stopped her. “If she’s really trying to stir things up, having you along just hands her more ammunition. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
The next afternoon when I pushed open the door, Vivienne was already at the window seat. She was in full makeup, lipstick chosen in a fierce color. But the dark rings under her eyes—buried under a heavy layer of concealer—were still obvious.
“There you are.” She was stirring the coffee in front of her, fingernails digging into the porcelain, leaving faint pale scores. “I wondered if you’d have the nerve.”
I pulled out the chair and sat down. “Say what you came to say. I don’t have time to reminisce with you.”
Vivienne set the spoon down. Her mouth curved—no warmth in her eyes.
“Anna, don’t get ahead of yourself. That statement he issued was for the sake of the Sinclair family name. Do you actually think he’s remembered how it feels to love you?”
“That’s what you dragged me here for?” I leaned back in the chair.
She leaned forward and dropped her voice.
“You know why, all those years ago, it happened to be your AB negative Stella needed when she had her accident?”
My back tensed.
“I told Stella.” She smiled with the corners of her mouth up. “I told her the front desk girl at the company had a rare blood type—could save her life in a pinch. My plan was for her to owe you one, and with that overprotective streak of hers, she’d sing your praises everywhere. Then I’d find an excuse to get rid of you.”
“Except—” She let out a scoffing laugh. “She turned into the president of your fan club. The Sinclairs. One dumber than the last.”
I gripped the glass. The cold of the water seeped into my fingertips, then into a numb ache.
“Vivienne.”
She arched a brow.
“Do you know why you couldn’t keep Ethan?”
The smile went thin.
“You’re always calculating.” I stood up, looking down at her. “You calculate him. You calculate Stella. You calculate everyone. But there’s one thing you never calculated.”
“Ethan can’t stand being played. He broke up with you because you cheated. All those years without saying your name—it wasn’t because he couldn’t get over you. It was because you weren’t worth mentioning.”
Vivienne’s face drained white in a rush. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, nails driving into her palm.
“You—”
“Don’t get worked up.” I borrowed her tone from the fitting room and smiled, voice pitched soft. “Ms. Ashford. Your face is much less flattering angry than it is smiling.”
She lurched to her feet. The coffee cup toppled onto the table, dark liquid pouring off the edge and soaking into the hem of her cream-colored dress.
I turned and walked out.
Something she was shouting behind me was muffled by the closing door. Early winter wind slipped down my collar and I shivered—but my spine stayed straight.
I paused on the steps outside the café to catch my breath and reached into my bag for my phone to call a car. Something in the corner of my vision caught me.
A black Cayenne across the street, parked at the curb, window rolled halfway down—Ethan’s profile visible through the gap. Phone pressed to his ear, brows drawn tight, mid-conversation. The next second he looked up, and across the traffic and pedestrians, his gaze settled on me, steady.
He lowered the phone. Pushed the door open. Cut across the crosswalk in long strides, coat flaring at the hem.
“What did she want?” He stopped in front of me, brow still knit.
“To reminisce.”
Clearly he wasn’t buying it. His expression darkened. “What did she say?”
“Nothing much. Wished me a smooth prenatal exam.”
Ethan looked at me for three seconds, then dropped it. He reached out and pulled up the collar of my coat, his thumb brushing my chin, cold from outside.
“Wind’s picking up. Get in the car.”
“You followed me?”
“I drove you here.” He paused. “Didn’t want her giving you trouble.”
I looked at him, and my eyes suddenly stung. I also wanted, absurdly, to laugh.
“Ethan.”
“Yeah?”
“You used to be like this. Every time I went out, you’d ask where, with who, when I’d be back. I told you it was annoying, and you said—”
He watched me.
“You said, ‘I married you to take care of you. Not to have people push you around.'”
He stood there. The wind mussed a few strands of hair across his forehead. He looked at me, and a light flickered in his eyes, and then, slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up.
“Sounds like I got it right.”