Chapter 2His Fake Depression Cost Him Everything

A deafening buzz filled my ears.

Every rehearsed confrontation evaporated in an instant.

"How is she? Where is she?"

Mark let out a caustic laugh on the other end. "Oh, so now you panic? What were you thinking when you powered down? Did you think about your mother? Did you think about your boyfriend?"

I bit down hard on my inner lip, swallowing my pride just to know where she was. "I'm sorry. It's my fault. I didn't know she was coming today. I shouldn't have turned off my phone."

"Please... just tell me which hospital she's at."

"Mark, I'm begging you."

A deliberate silence hung on the line as he savored my surrender, soaking in my desperation, before languidly tossing out the hospital name.

When I burst through the hospital ward doors, Mark was gently feeding my mother broth with a spoon.

Before her pale, frail form, his movements were immaculate—gentle, infinitely patient, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin after every careful sip.

The moment my mother saw me, she scrambled to sit up straighter, but Mark gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Rest, Mrs. Foster," he murmured softly.

Still, determined to look stronger than she was, she braced her back against the pillows, her voice thick with guilt. "Cassie, look at you, sweating through your shirt. Come sit. Mom’s fine, don't you worry. Just got a little dizzy in the heat. A little rest and I'll be good as new."

"It's all my fault. I should have called ahead."

"You kids work so hard, under so much pressure... I just wanted to come make a few hot meals for you and Mark, scrub down the apartment, fill your freezer with homemade food before heading back. I wanted to lighten your load. I never meant to become one."

I dropped to my knees beside her bed, tears spilling over before I could stop them.

For twenty-six years, it had just been the two of us against the world. Neither of us could bear the thought of burdening the other; we were each other's only tether.

Five years ago, she had been diagnosed with early-stage liver cancer.

After surgery and localized therapy, she had recovered remarkably well.

Yet the word "recurrence" had remained a guillotine suspended above my neck, held by a fraying thread.

Watching the tears stream down my face, Mark set the bowl aside and handed me a tissue, his voice losing its abrasive edge.

"Don't cry. The doctor said it shouldn't be anything major. They ran a couple of standard scans; she just needs to be observed overnight and she can go home tomorrow."

"If you fall apart like this, she'll only feel worse."

Mark was right.

The only person in this room whose heart would break at the sight of my tears was my mother.

I took the tissue without looking at him, wiped my cheeks, and forced a bright, trembling smile onto my lips.

"Mom, you came at the perfect time. I was just about to take my vacation days to come visit you anyway. I've been craving your cooking like crazy."

A faint flush of color returned to my mother's pale face, melting some of the shame in her tired eyes. "All right. Tomorrow, as soon as they discharge me, I'll cook for you."

After tucking her in and watching her settle against the mattress, I unfolded the squeaky vinyl cot beside the bed and turned to Mark.

"You can go. I'll stay here tonight."

He didn't move. Instead, he took a seat on the edge of the cot. "I don't have anywhere else to go. Let's head back together in the morning."

A bitter laugh caught in my throat. "You don't have anywhere to go?" A trust-fund billionaire with access to luxury penthouses, waterfront villas, and five-star suites—and he was still playing the destitute, devoted pauper squeezed onto a hospital cot with me.

Did he find this charade amusing?

I opened my mouth, ready to tear the veil away, when my mother stirred in her half-sleep behind me. She cracked an eye open, looking at Mark and me, and let out a faint, contented sigh.

"Seeing you two so good together... makes my heart rest easy."

With that, she drifted back under, a peaceful smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.

That whisper was a heavy brass padlock.

It sealed the rage right back down my throat.

Looking at her fragile, paper-thin face, how could I bear to light a match and burn her peace to ashes?

I told myself to swallow it down. I had endured two years of his performance; I could endure a few more days.

I would wait until my mother was safely on her way back home, smiling and content. Then, and only then, would I tear this entire farce to the ground.

Mark lay on his side on the narrow cot, patting the sliver of space in front of him. "Come here."