Chapter 2

Richard Sterling came home from the endocrinologist' s office looking like a thundercloud. He threw his custom-tailored jacket onto a Louis XIV chair, the fabric whispering in protest. Eleanor, my mother-in-law, fluttered around him, her face a mask of concern.

"Richard, darling, what did the doctor say? You look so stressed."

He grunted, loosening his silk tie.

"He said I'm a diabetic. A quack, the lot of them. Just trying to sell me their expensive drugs and stupid diet plans."

He stalked into the living room and collapsed onto the plush sofa.

"Get me a slice of that strawberry shortcake from the fridge. And a Coke. Full sugar, not that diet poison."

Eleanor's face flickered with a moment of hesitation. It was a faint, weak light that was quickly extinguished.

"Of course, dear. You've had a stressful day. You deserve a treat."

She hurried to the kitchen, her heels clicking nervously on the marble floor. I stood by the archway, a silent observer. In my past life, this was my cue. I would have intercepted her, my voice firm but gentle, explaining the immediate danger of a sugar-loaded dessert for a newly diagnosed diabetic. I would have presented the grim numbers from his bloodwork, quoted the doctor's warnings, and suggested a healthy alternative. A fight would have erupted. Richard would have roared, Eleanor would have cried, and David, when he got home, would have asked me why I couldn't just "keep the peace."

This time, I did nothing. I simply watched.

Richard caught my eye. "What are you staring at? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just thinking," I said, my voice even and calm.

Eleanor returned with a huge slice of cake, glistening with glaze and topped with a mountain of whipped cream. A tall glass of Coca-Cola, fizzing with bubbles, sat beside it on the silver tray. She set it down in front of him with a reverent air, as if it were a sacred offering.

"Here you are, my love."

Richard grabbed the fork and plunged it into the cake, stuffing a massive bite into his mouth. He chewed with an aggressive, defiant energy, his eyes locked on me. It was a challenge. See? I do what I want. Your science and your rules mean nothing here.

He took a long, noisy gulp of the soda. "Ah, that's better. These doctors don't know anything. They look at a man like me, successful, powerful, and they want to knock me down a peg. 'Diabetes,' he says. It's a disease for weak people. For failures. Not for Richard Sterling."

I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if I were watching a documentary about the mating habits of a particularly stubborn, self-destructive species. Every word, every action was a nail being hammered into his own coffin. And I wasn't going to lift a finger to stop him.

I thought about the years of my previous life. The endless, thankless work. The constant anxiety that knotted my stomach. The hope that, eventually, they would see I was only trying to help. That hope had been a fool's game. It had led me to my death. Kindness in this family wasn't a virtue; it was a vulnerability to be exploited.

He finished the cake in under a minute, then drained the glass of soda. He leaned back into the cushions, a smug look on his face.

"See? I feel fine. Better, even. All that worrying for nothing."

I gave him a small, placid smile. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Richard."

My agreement seemed to unnerve him more than any argument could have. He stared at me for a moment, searching for the disapproval he expected, the fight he craved. Finding none, he just grunted and turned his attention to the financial news on the massive television screen.

I turned and walked away, a cold certainty settling in my core. My decision was made. I had tried to be their savior and they had crucified me for it. This time, I would be a spectator. And I would enjoy the performance.