Chapter XVIII: Her life will never be enough to atone for her sins

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A jarringly cheerful melody trilled from unseen speakers as Lydia and Clinton descended the stairs.

Constance, a vibrant splash of red against the muted morning light, greeted them with a chipper, “Finally! I thought you were going to make an old woman wait forever.”

Clinton’s jaw clenched. He knew full well she was aware of his late arrival, a silent accusation hanging heavy in the air. “We weren’t informed you were waiting for us,” he said curtly.

“Nonsense! We always have breakfast together.” Constance waved a dismissive hand. “Well, you’re here now. Come, come, let’s eat.”

Servants glided in with an extravagant continental spread. Delicious aroma filled the air.

Disbelief warred with nausea in Lydia’s gut.

“What’s the occasion?” Clinton managed, the question a low growl.

Constance’s smile faltered for a fleeting moment. “Occasion?” she echoed, a touch too brightly. “Do I need a reason to prepare a lovely breakfast for my son and his wife?”

“Just coffee and toast would be fine, Mom,” Lydia choked out.

“Absolutely not! I woke up early, to prepare all this,” Constance chirped, her eyes flashing with something akin to defiance. “Surely, you are not going to let my effort go to waste right?”

“Mom, not today,” Lydia pleaded, her voice trembling.

“Won’t you even ask about how your grandchild is doing?” Clinton queried, his tightly clenched jaw twitching.

Constance’s gaze flickered upwards, a flicker of confusion momentarily clouding her bright facade. “Alex? What’s wrong with him? Did something happen to him in the night?”

Clinton and Lydia exchanged a look of horrified disbelief. Lydia squeezed Clinton’s hand, grounding him as a cold fury simmered in his blue eyes.

“Mom,” Lydia forced out, her voice thick with emotion, “Sahara… she’s in a coma.”

Constance’s response was a nonchalant shrug as she reached for a croissant. “Oh, her,” she mumbled, taking a large, uncaring bite.

The sound of the pastry crunching echoed in the tense silence, a grotesque counterpoint to the storm brewing within Clinton.

“So,” Constance continued, her voice laced with a saccharine sweetness, “what does your schedule look like today? Keep three pm free. I’ve already contacted the top wedding planner in the city.”

“A wedding?” Lydia sputtered, incredulous. “How can you even think about such a thing at a time like this?”

Constance’s smile widened, devoid of warmth. “There’s no better time than now, darling.”

“Mom, Sahara is fighting for her life,” Clinton roared, his voice raw with suppressed emotion. “How can you be so… so… unfeeling?”

Constance’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to do? Am I a miracle doctor? Will crying my eyes out or worrying and fretting bring her out of the coma?” Her voice dripped with disdain.

Clinton stared at her, his face a mask of pain and betrayal. “How can you be so cruel to your own grandchild? My daughter is in this state because of you, and you won’t even show a shred of remorse?”

Constance took a slow sip of her coffee, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a staccato rhythm against the china. “Are you finished, dear? If so, perhaps you should contact your secretary and reschedule everything for tomorrow. I’ve already secured an appointment with the justice of the peace.” She turned to Lydia, a predatory glint in her eyes. “And you, my dear, the designer will be here for your fitting. Your wedding dress will be ready by this evening.”

“Mom! Enough already” Clinton slammed his fist on the table, rattling the silverware.

Constance raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

“Mom, what happened to you? Why are you being like this?”

“Maybe,” she continued, a cruel smile twisting her lips, “I’ve always been like this.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

Constance’s brows creased in contemplation. “I didn’t peg you to be such a sentimental person. When your son drowned, two years ago, you were not this sentimental. Interesting.”

Constance’s words hung heavy in the air, a cruel accusation dripping with venom.

A strangled gasp escaped from Lydia’s lips.

Shame burned hot on Lydia’s cheeks as Constance’s cruel smirk widened.

Constance’s smirk held a cruelty that sent shivers down Lydia’s spine. “In fact,” Constance drawled, her voice dripping with malice, “you two were already seeking solace in each other’s arms before his body was even cold.

“You can fool anyone but me. If my memory serves me right, on the night of the boy’s vigil, you two were going at it like two horny rabbits, what’s more, it was in the church’s carpark.”

Lydia’s head dropped, the memory a bitter pill on her tongue. Shame gnawed at her. A wave of nausea washed over her as memories of that dark night surfaced. Memories she’d tried so desperately to bury.

Constance’s words were a scalpel, cutting open an old wound.

Constance clucked her tongue and threw a disdainful look at Lydia, then continued. “If you could do such a thing on the night before his burial, there is no need for you to act all pitiful now just because Sahara is in a coma.”

Clinton’s jaw clenched, a muscle pulsing in his temple. He fought the urge to lash out, to defend Lydia against his mother’s barbs. But the weight of his past transgressions held him back. Maybe Constance was right. Maybe he hadn’t grieved Alex as intensely as he should have.

He had always thought that what had happened between the two of them on the night of the candlelit vigil was a secret between him and Lydia.

One that they would take to the grave. Little did he know, his mother was fully aware of his shameful act.

It was an act that even he was not proud of.

He looked towards Lydia. Seeing her aggrieved state broke him. That night was not her fault. Shame battled with a surge of protectiveness for Lydia, creating a turmoil within him.

“Mom,” he finally said, his voice laced with exasperation, “whatever issues you have with Monique, please put them aside for Sahara’s sake.”

Constance simply sneered, her response a dismissal.

Clinton slumped back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a splitting headache. He decided on a different approach.

“Mom,” he began, his voice strained, “whatever Monique owes you, her slate was wiped clean and balanced the scales when she saved your life two years ago.”

Constance’s face twisted in a sudden, shocking burst of rage. She grabbed her coffee cup and flung it with a banshee shriek. It sailed through the air, narrowly missing Clinton and shattering inches from Lydia’s leg.

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