Page 14 of Conquer
Chapter Five
In a daze, I return to the house, but I don’t go upstairs to pack, even though I should. I find myself sitting at the dining room table instead, too numb to do anything but stare at a pile of mocking, goddamn documents. He made it sound so damn simple. Sign a piece of paper, claim joint custody of a little girl—like it was something people did on a daily basis.
On a whim.
Though in his world, maybe they do. Maxim did it? I wonder if that’s where his anger truly stems from. Maxim supposedly didn’t hesitate to take on six children when asked. But when it comes to his one?
I balk.
Because that’s what normal people do when presented with the gravity of caring for a child,a part of me insists.Leave, Tiffy. Run.
Run…
I find the strength to stand and make it upstairs, but I don’t enter the closet first. I stagger into the bathroom, alarmed by the woman I find watching me from the mirror’s surface. Her eyes are bloodshot, her hair a mess, her outfit totally unfashionable.
She’s a stranger—though not entirely. I’ve glimpsed her before, hunched over the sink, or cowering after a fight with Jim. After he made her feel so damn worthless…
And my already low mood plummets. What was that promise I made to myself all those months ago? Never again.
Bracing my hands over the countertop, I fight to take a deep breath. The moment I manage to drag in enough air, I release it slowly, tilting my head up to the ceiling. The last time I found myself in this position, I gave myself only a second to come up with a game plan. Back then, it was simple—live, kick ass, make my list. Fuck the world—literally.
But now?
This newer decision forms slowly, coming together as I strip my clothing and enter the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand. Surrendering to the torrent, I let the heat and steam wash away my pain and hurt, watching it all circle the drain like blood. Then I towel off, and enter the closet, taking just one outfit from the hangers.
It’s a modest gray dress. Without thinking, I select the matching jacket, and complete the outfit with a black leather purse and heels. The resulting effect is a more confident woman than the disheveled waif in gift shop clothing. And yet it’s still not enough. I have to run a brush through my hair and carefully apply enough makeup to disguise the red blotches from crying. Then I line my eyes with liner and spread a soft pink lipstick on my lips.
Only now do I feel like myself again.
When I finally return downstairs, I’m surprised to find Ena leaning against the front door. Spotting me, he cocks his head, his expression wary.
“You go back?” His tone surprises me almost as much as his neutral gaze. It isn’t hostile, for once.
I nod, and he grunts in reply, lumbering to open the door. “I bring car around.”
“I’ll be there in a moment.” With my head held high, I take a detour into the kitchen, grabbing the handful of documents from the dining room table. I flip through them, picking out the adoption papers pertaining to Magda, ignoring the rest. He had this all planned out meticulously, it seems—the bastard even left his pen.
Lifting it, I give myself one last chance to second-guess the decision…
Before I sign my name on every last page. As I watch the ink dry, I rip off my fake engagement ring and leave it right by the unsigned marriage documents.
And don’t regret a damn thing.
* * *
A different womanclaims the ICU reception desk when I approach. She takes one look at me, and her frown deepens as though she’s recalling some warning about a woman matching my description.
The second I slam a stack of documents down before her, however, her frown fades.
“I’m here to see the patient in room 2207,” I say in my chirpiest voice with my most charming smile. “I’m her legal guardian.”
The woman nods and rises to her feet, but this time she beckons me after her, down a wide hallway and past an open nurse’s station. Another woman is already advancing to meet us, her gray suit practical, a sturdy briefcase tucked under her arm.
“Mrs. Gorgoshev!” She extends her hand to me, her smile warm, and I vaguely recognize her as Magda’s social worker. Ms. Anderson.
“I wish I could stay longer,” she says with a small laugh. “Current circumstances aside, I’ll confess that I don’t think I’ve seen Magda look happier in a long time. I have the doctor’s information, and they’ll keep me posted on her condition…” She breaks off, scanning my face, and I sense her smile widen as if she’s desperate to reassure me the same way she must soothe those in her care. “Don’t worry now. She’s a tough girl. And this visit is just a formality given her hospital admission. I have to get going, but I’ll contact your husband about the next check-in. Have a wonderful day!”
She scampers off, leaving the nurse to continue forging the way through the small unit. There, in a room at the very back of the space, I find Magdalene, resting in bed, chatting animatedly to a figure who’s seated beside her, holding her hand.
