Chapter 3
The tension in the air was so thick it felt like it could be sliced with a knife. Marcelline remained on the ground, a portrait of ruined elegance, her chest heaving as she assessed the damage to her face and her pride. Jessamine stood over her, a fierce guardian angel, her breathing ragged, the diamond of her wedding ring catching the glaring afternoon sun. But the silence was broken by a small, heartbreaking sound.
Piers scrambled out of the heavy metal chair, his tiny shoes slipping slightly on the ash-covered stone. He darted forward and threw his arms around Jessamine’s legs, burying his face into the soft denim of her jeans. He was shaking violently, a small, petite bird seeking shelter from a storm. Jessamine’s rage softened for a split second as she dropped to one knee, wrapping her arms around his fragile shoulders, pulling him tight against her chest.
"I've got you, baby. Mommy's right here," Jessamine whispered fiercely, pressing a kiss to his soft, fair hair. "No one is going to hurt you."
Piers pulled his face away from her shirt. His rosy cheeks were stained with fresh, glistening tears, his hazel eyes wide with a fear that no four-year-old should ever possess. He looked terrified, not just of Marcelline, but of the entire environment. With a trembling, hesitant finger, he reached out from the safety of his mother’s embrace and pointed toward the edge of the patio, underneath the long buffet table draped in white linen.
Jessamine followed his gaze. Hidden in the deep shadows beneath the table was a large, heavy-duty blue cooler, the kind usually reserved for excess ice or drinks.
Jessamine stood up, her eyes locked on the cooler. She took three purposeful strides across the patio, the guests parting for her like the Red Sea. She grabbed the plastic handle and hauled the heavy cooler out into the bright sunlight. Flinging the lid open, she expected to see beer bottles or sodas. Instead, she found a meticulously organized stash of food. Stacked neatly over bags of ice were several premium, fresh meals packed in clear containers—gourmet pasta salads, perfectly grilled chicken breasts, fresh fruit medleys, and slices of artisan cake.
Jessamine stared at the abundance of perfect food, her mind struggling to process the cruelty of the blackened burger sitting in pieces on the patio. She turned back to her son, her voice cracking under the weight of her confusion. "Piers... what is this?"
May you like
Piers clung to the edge of the table, his voice trembling so badly it was barely audible over the faint rustle of the summer breeze. He looked at Lily, who was still sitting in her chair, and then down at the ruined, charred meat.
"Her kids got the food," Piers cried, his voice breaking into a devastated sob that shattered Jessamine’s heart into a million pieces. "They always get the food... Burnt pieces for me. Only the burnt pieces."
