Chapter 4. The Past According to Ana (and the Mind According to Natalia)

The doctor blinked, confused.

"Ma'am, I'm the doctor, not the—"

"Not you," Ana cut him off with a wave of her hand that made it clear doctors were just servants with degrees. "Her."

And she pointed at Natalia with her finger, as if identifying a criminal in a lineup.

Natalia, who had walked in with the calm of someone returning from buying bread, arched an eyebrow.

"Me?" she asked, with a false innocence only she could pull off.

"Yes, you. How is it possible my son is in the hospital? How is it that you don't take care of him? Where did you fail?"

Natalia didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't take a step back. She just smiled — that small, razor-sharp smile that promised blood — and responded in the sweetest voice in the world:

"Mrs. Sitik, I'm not a babysitter. And especially not for a thirty-year-old."

"Old?!" Ana exclaimed, offended.

"Your son is thirty, not three. He crashed because he was talking on the phone while driving. With his mistress Valeria, no less. That's not my fault. If you want to blame someone, call her and hold her accountable."

The silence that followed was so thick you could've cut it with a knife.

Branko closed his eyes. Not from the headache. From secondhand embarrassment.

Ana opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. She looked like a fish freshly yanked from the water.

"Valeria isn't that type of person," she said at last, her voice trembling — the voice of someone defending the indefensible. "She would never—"

But Branko stopped listening to his mother.

Because Natalia had just thought something.

And he heard it clear as water.

"Oh, yes. The good Valeria. This woman wouldn't see a demon even if it were eating her alive. Meanwhile, her husband" a.k.a. Don Viagra "has a mistress. His own secretary. The girl, who I think is around my age, is pregnant. And Ana's out here drinking wine like it's water. She should lay off the drinking. It's affecting her judgment, if she ever had any."

Branko's eyes flew wide open.

He looked at his mother. Saw her with the handkerchief in her hand, the trembling lip, the smeared mascara. Saw her as he'd never seen her before: a woman being cheated on who didn't know it.

Then he looked at his father. Vladimir stood by the door, with his cane and his impassive face. The same man who'd taught him that marriage was a contract, that love was a weakness, that feelings were negotiated like stocks.

"My father has a mistress,* Branko thought, stunned. *My father has a PREGNANT mistress. And Natalia knows."

"Son, are you okay?" Ana asked, noticing his pallor. "Does something hurt?"

"No," Branko lied. His head hurt. His pride hurt. Everything hurt.

Ana, who couldn't stay quiet even under threat of a bomb, continued her speech.

"Valeria left heartbroken," she said, her voice cracking, as if she were reciting a poem about lost love. "When you and Branko got married, her heart shattered. She cried for weeks. She had to see a therapist. Did you know that?"

Natalia raised an eyebrow. Just one. The left.

"Oh, really?" she said, with a terrifying calm. "So it's my fault?"

"I'm not saying it's your fault, but—"

"Let me remind you all," Natalia interrupted, cutting her off like scissors through thread, "that the ones who begged for this marriage were you. The Sitiks came to my office. Sat in my chairs. Drank my coffee. And asked me — begged me — for an alliance. I didn't take anyone's place. Valeria wasn't in the equation. The equation was your bankrupt company and my thriving one."

Ana opened her mouth. Closed it. Vladimir, from the doorway, coughed.

"Natalia," Vladimir said, with his deep patriarch's voice, "I think you're misinterpreting things."

"Am I misinterpreting things?" Natalia spun on her heels and looked him dead in the eye. Without fear. Without a tremor. With the ferocity of someone who'd built her empire with blood and nails. "Look, Father-in-law, I didn't come into this family begging for scraps. You needed me. I didn't need you. If your son wants to run off with the pretty girl from his youth, let him. But don't blame me for your decisions."

Ana stepped forward, ready to counterattack.

"You're arrogant," she hissed.

"I'm a realist," Natalia replied. "There's a difference. Arrogance is bragging about what you don't have. I have plenty. And I also have something you all seem to have lost: dignity."

And then, while Branko watched the whole scene like it was a tennis match, Natalia added out loud:

"Besides, you should relax. I'm going to divorce your son. That way the poor, suffering Valeria can be happy with her prince charming. Isn't that what everyone wants?"

"Of course I'm stepping aside,* Natalia thought, her face remaining impassive. *With that money-hemorrhaging little saint, I'm not about to let her spend my capital like water at the supermarket. Plus, that apartment this idiot gave Valeria is community property. I'm still going to evict her. She can give me back my half, or I'll sue her until even her last name hurts."

Branko choked on his own saliva.

"Branko!" Ana exclaimed, patting his back. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he coughed. "Yeah, I just... I was surprised."

Natalia looked at him. What's he surprised about? I haven't said anything offensive... yet.

Branko looked at her. And for the first time, he didn't see her as the indifferent wife. He saw her as a shark in a skirt with an angel's smile. She was crueler than he'd imagined. And smarter. And more dangerous.

And, goddamn, he liked it.

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