Tarson watched silently as she placed the vintage tea set on the table, he watched her precisely set the saucer, then layered the tea cup on top of it, he watched as her slender, porcelain fingers wrapped around the tea jug's ear and poured into the cup with practiced precision.
He watched her, as she picked the golden spoon and scooped three cubes of sugar into the tea cup, her slender fingers as pale as they always were, picked up the creamer and poured the content into the tea. Mixing the content slowly.
He watched, she was calm.
Unbelievably, calm.
He watched as she picked the tea cup and sipped quietly, oblivious of his presence,
Or purposely ignorant of him.
He hated it.
He hated how she remained calm. And so, senselessly,
He blurted what stewed in his mind all night.
" I do not want a divorce"
Silence.
He expected a reaction, a pause. Words from her. Anything maybe. But nothing.
She sipped like she never heard him. Like he never existed. What happened to Valeria?
Why was she so quiet, he hated her calm, he hated how detached she was, he hated how poise she looked this early for a cold morning.
Worst of all, he hated that he hated everything.
" I believe I'm speaking to you, Valerie" he said, she paused, then. And her lashes feathered lightly over the tea cup that rested over her lips.
She was just about to take another satisfying sip.
And just when he thought she would talk, she didn't.
She resumed sipping.
And God, did it infuriate him to bits.
" Do you not hear that I'm speaking to you?" He said.
This time, his voice threateningly low.
Valeria, with a sigh of damnation placed her tea cup in the marble carved table, fingers flexing, she poured herself another cup. The smell of lemon grass tea assaulted his nose.
He hated it.
He hated her, and he was seething.
How dare she, she reached for the creamer again, he wasn't about to watch a repeat ritual while he stewed in being ignored.
He stood up from his chair and walked round the table, he stepped before her, grabbing the arm chair of the chair she sat on, yanking her forward as he leaned in.
His face inches away from her.
Why was he doing this?
He didn't know, but he knew this woman pissed the fuck out of him and he wanted to register it in her head she doesn't get to treat him the way she'd done.
He had a lot to say.
Until her eyes stared directly into his.
And God, was he startled.
He felt tremors jolt through him, from his hair to the very tip of his toes.
The reverence and hatred in her eyes haunted him, he paled.
No... This wasn't Valeria.
Valeria would never look at him with so much contempt.
No, she was....
"I would not entertain your clownery, be at the court on Tuesday. Mr. Spride." Her voice, detached and cold irked him.
Mr. Spride?
Where was the Valeria who called him Tarry Lovingly? Valeria who served him his coffee on a Monday morning?
Valeria who always pleaded at and for him?
Was this truly his wife?
He hated the switch up.
Was Valeria the one talking?
Clownery?
She was calling him a clown?
How dare she.
His sentence were about to be voiced but she pushed back and stood up,
Her cologne whizzed past his nose and his eye brows scrunched.
She smelt gloomy. Like something icy, dark, and spicy. An enigma.
What changed her?
She turned and made for the door, not a single head turn.
He watched her slender, curvy build take sensual, powerful strides.
Valeria would always almost trip off her own feet.
He realized, then.
What he had, what he abused and what he lost.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
CLICK.
The door shut behind her, she made for her vanity and sat by the stool before it.
She dared herself to look into the mirror.
There, there she was.
As pale as a boiler day old egg.
Absurdly bright fiery red hair slicked back in an elegant bun, fringes cascading over the sides of her face.
She stared into the reflection of her striking light silver eyes.
She didn't recognize her.
She didn't see who once loved Tarson.
She saw a woman, cold, detached, devoid of emotions.
She saw what her head told her.
But her heart bled.
She was just 23. And had wasted seven years of her life to a vain man.
What was there to regret?
It wasn't worth it.
She sighed, albeit resignedly. A sharp pain cut through her freshly.
There was always another woman, somewhere.
And she? Just a vassal.
A wife.
Resentment tore through her, she hated the idea of him. Tarson Spride was an absolute beast who drove a syndicate of women at her.
She didn't ask for the enmity, yet she got it.
She never wanted the envy, but somehow did,
She never wanted the hate, still had it.
And when all she wanted was him, she never had him.
Seven wasted years.
She placed her hand over her chest, a shallow way to relieve her erratically beating heart.
She sighed again.
Fuck Tarson.
She was done, but was she?
This morning at tea, she almost lost it at his audacity for refusing a divorce. He had the nerve to act entitled to her.
The audacity to get in her face and breathe in her space after using that same body to caress another woman.
Disgusting, disgusting!
She began to tremble in her seat then, her poised stance cracking.
Tears rolled down her hollowed cheeks, her face bled red.
She was a beautiful crier.
Only, hers was violent.
Flashes of gloomy, painful past zapped through her head and she convulsed.
Hands trembling, her breaths seizing.
With deep, intense breaths, she sought for the medicine by the farther end of the vanity, when her fingers gripped the bottle, she almost dropped it from her trembling hands.
Almost, yes.
But it slipped off and rolled under the table.
Now then, she knew she needed to find her pill.
But she collapsed to the floor and convulsed harder.
Like an epileptic lizard, tears streamed down her eyes as she stared at the french themed ceiling.
When would it all end?
