Chapter 2
It felt like my heart had died; there was no greater sorrow.
Just as I thought I would slowly numb in this silence, a message from Scarlett arrived, unexpected.
“Clara, I heard you’re not doing well? How are you lately? I’m a bit worried about you, thought we could grab coffee and clear your head.”
Her tone was gentle, oozing with “concern” and “sisterly affection.”
Ha. Worried about me? More like eager to see me suffer.
Julian’s words, “What about Scarlett?” still echoed in my ears.
My instinct was to refuse this hypocritical invitation.
But then, a perverse curiosity took hold. I wanted to see what kind of game this “white moonlight,” whom Julian cherished above his own wife and son, was planning to play.
“Sure, Scarlett, you’re too kind. Just tell me where.” I replied with a calmness that surprised even myself.
The café she picked was a chic, expensive, trendy spot.
Scarlett was already there, seated by the window. The afternoon sun filtered through the glass, softly outlining her perfectly delicate profile.
She was impeccably dressed today, radiating an air of delicate charm.
A brand-new luxury designer bag lay casually beside her.
Seeing me approach, she instantly stood, gracefully stepping forward. “Clara, you’re here. Please, sit.”
She took my hand. Her fingertips were warm and soft, making my own, cold and stiff from days of shock and heartbreak, feel even more pathetic.
“Clara, I’m truly sorry to hear… Julian told me. Don’t be too sad. It’s tough for a woman, you know, if you can’t have children anymore. It’s quite a shame.”
A flicker of triumph, quickly masked, danced in her eyes. Beneath that seemingly sincere expression of regret, her schadenfreude was unmistakable.
Three pleasantries in, and her real “performance” began.
“But don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Julian… he still cares about you, you know.”
Her voice held a seemingly “innocent” sigh, yet every word was designed to wound. “It’s just, you know how Julian is; he’s always loved children. He always said he wanted a bustling home, preferably three or four kids. If it hadn’t been for your ability to have children back then…”
She paused deliberately, lifting her gaze to me, her eyes filled with feigned sympathy: “Ah, what a pity… He so desperately craved a complete family with children around him. If only back then…”
She let the sentence hang, unfinished.
If only what?
She was blatantly implying that my body’s failure had left an irreparable “void” in his life.
And she, Scarlett Davies, was the one who could fulfill his dreams.
My heart was cold, my blood seeming to cease its flow.
Yet, I struggled to maintain a semblance of composure and dignity.
She elegantly raised her hand, gently stroking the exquisitely delicate, diamond-studded bracelet on her wrist. The bracelet shimmered, catching the afternoon sunlight in dazzling, almost blinding flashes.
She noticed my gaze on the bracelet, explaining with a touch of coy bashfulness: “Oh, this? Julian just gave it to me. He said he specifically got it from a renowned spiritual retreat; it’s called a ‘fertility bracelet’ and brings good luck for conception… he said it would surely help me realize my dream of becoming a mother.”
She continued, turning her “sympathetic” gaze back to me: “Ah, I was going to offer to get you one if you liked it. But it’s a shame, now that you… probably wouldn’t need it.”
At the very moment I was diagnosed with a potentially barren future, Julian, my husband, bought her a “fertility bracelet”?
And he wished her to “realize her dream of becoming a mother soon”?