Guinevere’s face darkened to an almost terrifying extent, her expression twisting with rage and frustration. The tension of the meal had taken many unexpected turns, and now, it felt as though everything was unraveling around her.
As Stella finally returned to her seat, Yvonne let out a relieved sigh and put her bowl down. “I thought you had an upset stomach,” she said, her voice lighthearted. Stella sat beside her, offering a small, reassuring smile. “No, I didn’t. I just felt a little unwell. Sorry for making you worry.”
Yvonne waved it off. “Good to hear you’re alright. For a moment, I even wondered if you might be pregnant!” Her words, casual and light, seemed to hit Guinevere like a thunderclap. She froze in place, her eyes narrowing, her body stiffening. It was as if a buried memory had been suddenly thrust to the surface.
The thought of Stella and her child consumed her. The anger inside her surged. If it hadn’t been for Stella’s pregnancy, if it weren’t for the fact that Weston had supported her decision to have the baby, Guinevere would never have been forced to take such extreme measures. She wouldn’t have been so desperate, so constantly on edge.
From the very start, Guinevere had never seen Stella as more than a tool—someone Weston used to provoke her. It was beneath her to get involved with Stella. Yet, despite how little Weston seemed to care for Stella, their marriage was a reality, a fact that couldn’t be ignored. They were husband and wife, with all the implications that came with it. And, most of all, they had a child together.
But after their reconciliation, Weston had never once touched Guinevere in that way again. She knew—deep down—that the only reason Weston had ever slept with her again was because of the alcohol. That night was a blur in her mind, a hazy memory of a mistake that had somehow pulled them back together. When she woke up the next day and saw the unreadable look in Weston’s eyes, that’s when she knew the inevitable had happened.
For a man like Weston, it was easy to have multiple women, and divorce was just another part of his life. But what Guinevere couldn’t accept was that he had always been so careful with his affections. He wasn’t like other men; he had never been with anyone before her. He had, in his own way, tried to take responsibility for her, and she had allowed it. She had been happy for him to do so, believing it was proof of his love.
In their early days together, Weston played the role of the thoughtful lover well, a product of his cultured upbringing, the generosity of a wealthy heir. But Guinevere had never been interested in that. What she wanted, what she craved, was his love. She needed him to love her as much as she loved him.
At first, everything had been harmonious. Mutual respect, understanding, and affection. But as time wore on, Guinevere’s demands grew. She wanted more from Weston, and that desire for more gradually led to conflict. Their relationship was no longer the smooth, loving bond it once was. Instead, it teetered on the edge of breaking apart.
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