The Lived in son-in-law Wants Divorce

8

Chapter 8

Ethan didn't wait to hear what Nicole would say next. The moment the elevator reached the ground floor he was through the doors and across the lobby before she could call after him. Outside, he swung his leg over his motorcycle, the one he had bought with his own savings long before Sophia's money ever touched his life, and pulled out of the parking lot without looking back.

His phone buzzed halfway across the bridge. Gerald Cole's name on the screen.

"Your aunt's here for dinner," his father said, voice flat and clipped as always. "I expect you at the table by seven."

"Fine," Ethan said, and hung up before his father could tack on conditions.

He didn't go home right away. Instead he drove east until the streets turned quiet and tree lined, all the way to the cemetery on the outskirts of the city where his mother lay buried under a simple gray stone. He knelt in the grass and pulled a few weeds from around the base of it, smoothing the dirt carefully with his hands.

"You told me not to marry her, Mom," he said quietly, his voice rough at the edges. "You said a marriage without love on both sides is just two people slowly destroying each other, and you begged me not to go through with it, and I did it anyway because I was young and stupid and thought I knew better than you. I'm sorry. You were right about every single thing."

He stayed there until his eyes burned raw and the light turned low and orange through the trees. When he finally stood up and turned to leave, he noticed him.

A man in a wheelchair, parked on the gravel path about thirty yards away, watching Ethan with an expression of such raw, open grief that it stopped him cold where he stood. The man's face was gaunt, his legs motionless beneath a thin blanket, and there was something about his eyes, the shape of them, the way they sat deep and dark above sharp cheekbones, that punched straight through Ethan's chest with a force he wasn't prepared for.

He knew that face. He knew it from somewhere very far back, from a part of his life he had walled off and tried to never visit again.

Ethan stared at the man. The man stared back, tears running silently down his hollow cheeks.

Who are you, Ethan thought, his heart hammering hard against his ribs. Why do I know you. Why does it hurt this much to look at you.

He didn't approach. Not yet. Instead he turned and walked to his motorcycle on legs that felt suddenly unsteady, and drove to his father's house with the image of that man's weeping face burned into the back of his mind.

Gerald Cole's house looked warm from the outside, golden light spilling through the curtains, the kind of picture that would make someone passing on the sidewalk imagine a happy family sitting down to a nice meal together. Ethan knew better.

His aunt was already seated at the table beside Kyle, both of them eating like they owned the place. Nanny Walsh met Ethan at the door and her smile dropped the instant she saw his face up close.

"Ethan, sweetheart, your eyes are all swollen," she said softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. "Have you been crying? What happened?"

Before he could answer, Kyle's voice cut across the dining room, loud and mocking.

"Look at him, shuffling in here like a kicked puppy with his tail between his legs," Kyle said, not even bothering to set down his fork. "What happened this time? Did Sophia throw your dinner in the trash again? That's what you get when you can't keep a woman like her happy. She's practically royalty in this city and you're out here whimpering in parking lots like a stray dog somebody forgot to put down."

"Kyle," Nanny Walsh said sharply.

"I'm just being honest with him," Kyle said, shrugging with exaggerated innocence. "Brother, listen to me. Sophia Morgan is the best thing that ever happened to your pathetic little life. The Morgan name alone is worth more than your whole bloodline combined. Whatever fight you two had, go crawl back to her, lick her shoes clean if you have to, and thank God every single day that a woman like that lets a cockroach like you sleep under her roof."

In his old life Ethan would have absorbed this quietly, swallowed every word like bitter medicine and said nothing at all because silence was easier than fighting people who would never see him as anything more than a useful tool. Not this time.

"Don't call her Sister Sophia," Ethan said, voice calm and even, watching Kyle's face closely. "She's my wife, not yours. And you might want to ask yourself why you care so much about what goes on inside her house, considering you're supposedly my cousin and not hers."

Kyle's face went red, then white. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've watched you circle her for years like a vulture waiting for something to finally drop dead," Ethan said. "And I'm telling you now to stop."

"Dad!" Kyle turned toward Gerald, voice climbing high and wounded. "Are you hearing this? He's accusing me of things for absolutely no reason at all. I've only ever tried to help him and this is how he treats his own family."

The aunt leaned forward with a pained expression painted carefully across her face. "Now, now, boys. Ethan, honey, Kyle is only looking out for you. We're all family here. There's no reason to get this worked up over a little friendly advice."

Ethan looked at his aunt with new eyes, seeing every careful lie for exactly what it was underneath the performance. He knew the truth now from his old life. Kyle was not his cousin at all. Kyle was his father's illegitimate son through this very woman, who had played mistress for years while smiling at family dinners and calling herself auntie. In his previous life, the moment Gerald's company went bankrupt, both of them had vanished overnight like cockroaches scattering when the kitchen light flicks on, without a shred of loyalty or shame between them.

Gerald cleared his throat heavily from the head of the table. "Enough of this. Both of you sit down and eat. Now."

They ate in a silence that felt like chewing glass. Afterward, when the plates were cleared and the aunt had disappeared into the kitchen making a show of being helpful, Gerald turned to Ethan with the expression he always wore when money was involved, half commanding, half desperate, entirely shameless.

"I need you to talk to Sophia about that investment deal," Gerald said, setting down his chopsticks with careful authority. "Call her tonight. Smooth things over between you. The funding has to come through this week or everything falls apart."

Ethan looked at his father across the table and understood, with the kind of clarity that only comes from having already lived through the worst of something once, that his marriage had never been anything to these people except an open checkbook with his name signed on the front.