Marionette s Symphony

I sold my vintage Fender bass to pay for Jarvis' s med school tuition, believing his promise that we would conquer the world together.

Ten years later, I found a hidden folder on his laptop titled "Exit Strategy," detailing exactly how to leave me homeless while he moved our daughter's tutor into my house.

He wasn't just cheating; he was systematically erasing me.

On the nanny cam, I watched him laugh as Chrissy, the "angelic" tutor, wore my silk robe and mocked my music as childish noise.

He told her I was nothing but a stepping stone, a connection to my father's influence that he had finally outgrown.

I didn't scream. I didn't beg.

I quietly gathered the evidence, secured my assets, and served him divorce papers that shattered his carefully curated reputation.

But when Chrissy, driven mad by his lies, dragged our daughter to a snowy cliff' s edge, Jarvis finally fell to his knees.

He wept, begging for a second chance, swearing I was the only woman he ever loved.

I looked at the man who had plotted my ruin, then down at my daughter who saw right through him.

"It's too late, Jarvis," I said, my voice colder than the wind.

I walked away into the snow, holding my daughter tight, leaving him alone in the cold with nothing but his regrets.

Chapter 1

The biting wind sliced through my coat, a stark reminder of the chill that had settled deep in my bones long before winter arrived. I pulled the collar tighter, watching the slow dance of snowflakes beginning to dot the already grey sky. It was exactly 3:00 PM. The time I' d agreed to meet him.

A black sedan, sleek and expensive, glided to a stop beside the curb. The window hummed down, revealing Jarvis' s profile. His sharp jawline, the perfectly coiffed dark hair-it was all still there, untouched by the ruin he' d brought upon us. He offered a tight, almost professional smile.

"Carmel. Right on time, as always." His voice was smooth, a practiced charm that once disarmed me. Now, it felt like sandpaper against a raw wound.

I didn't return the smile. "Jarvis."

He opened the passenger door, a silent invitation. I hesitated, my gaze sweeping over the polished leather interior. A faint, cloying sweetness, like cheap floral perfume, hung in the air. Not my scent. Not anymore.

He cleared his throat. "It' s freezing out here. Get in."

I got in. The warmth of the car was immediate, but it did nothing to thaw the ice between us. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

"How' s Mom?" I asked, my voice flat, cutting through the quiet.

His shoulders visibly relaxed. "She… she' s been asking for you."

I already knew. Mrs. Oneill' s dementia had advanced rapidly since I' d moved out. In her lucid moments, she grieved for a daughter-in-law who was still alive but gone from her daily life. In her confusion, she simply missed the kindness I' d always shown her.

"She thinks Chrissy is a stranger," he continued, a note of something I couldn't quite decipher in his tone. Pity? Shame? I didn' t care.

"I' m meeting her at her doctor' s appointment later," I said. "I' ll be there for the consultation."

He nodded. "Thank you, Carmel. That means a lot. To her, and to me."

I didn't respond. His gratitude felt hollow, a performance for an audience of one: himself.

He tried to hand me his credit card. "Let me pay for your coffee."

I pushed it back towards him. "I've already paid."

His gaze lingered on my face. "You look tired, Carmel. Are you eating enough?"

"I'm fine." My voice was clipped.

"Our appointment is in an hour," he said, consulting the dashboard clock. "We can grab a quick lunch."

"No, thank you." I looked out the window, watching the city lights blur in the falling snow. "I'll meet you there. I have some errands to run."