Rise of the Formidable Ex-wife (Lucia and Alex) novel Chapter 118

Chapter 118

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The math test paper sat on Monica’s desk like an accusation. Red ink covered the white page, corrections, question marks, a big circled “D-” at the top that felt like a slap across her face. Three months ago, Monica had been getting A’s in algebra. Now she could barely remember how to solve basic equations.

“Miss Hart?” Mrs. Vans’s voice cut through the g in Monica’s head. “Could you please solve problem number seven on the

board?”

Monica looked up from her desk, blinking slowly. The classroom felt too bright, too loud. Twenty–five pairs of eyes turned to stare at her, waiting for an answer she didn’t have.

“I… what was the question?”

Mrs. Vans’s expression softened with concern. “The quadratic equation. We’ve been working on it for ten minutes.”

Ten minutes? Monica looked at the clock on the wall. How had ten minutes passed without her noticing? She’d been staring at her test paper, but her mind had been somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and empty where numbers didn’t make sense and nothing stayed in her memory long enough to matter.

“I don’t know,” Monica whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know the answer.” Monica’s voice

was

barely audible. “I don’t understand any of it.”

The other students shifted in their seats. Someone whispered something that sounded like her name. Monica felt heat creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks like fire.

Mrs. Vans walked over to Monica’s de

Monica nodded quickly, not trusting might never stop.

her footsteps careful and quiet. “Are you feeling all right today?”

voice.

If she tried to speak, she might start crying. And if she started crying, she

“Why don’t you see me after class? We can

go over the problems together.”

Another nod. Monica looked down at her hands, focusing on the chipped nail polish on her thumb. Blue polish that was now more white than blue, peeling off in tiny flakes that she picked at obsessively.

The rest of the class period passed like a dream. Mrs. Vans’s voice became background noise, mixing with the sound of pencils scratching on paper and the heating system humming in the walls. Monica stared at her textlook, but the numbers and letters swam together like they were underwater.

When the bell rang, students packed up their things and filed out of the classroom. Monica moved slowly, putting her books in her backpack like each one weighed fifty pounds.

“Monica?” Cindy Martinez appeared beside her desk. Cindy had been Monica’s best friend since third grade. They used to spend hours together, talking about everything and nothing. “Are you okay? You seem… different lately.”

Different. That was one way to put it. Monica felt like she was dissolving from the inside out, like pieces of herself were disappearing a little more each day.

“I’m fine,” Monica said automatically.

“No, you’re not. You’ve been weird for weeks. You don’t talk during lunch, you don’t laugh at anything, and you look like you haven’t slept in forever” Cindy’s voice was worried, caring. “What’s going on?”

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Monica zipped up her backpack and stood, avoiding Cindy’s eyes. “Nothing’s going on. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Is it about your parents? The stuff in the newspapers?”

The question hit Monica like a punch to the stomach. Of course Cindy knew about the newspaper stories. Everyone knew. The whole school had been talking about her family for weeks. Her father’s company problems, her mother’s engagement to another man, the divorce that had torn everything apart.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But maybe if you talked about it, you’d feel better. My mom says that keeping things inside just makes them worse.”

“Your mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” The words came out harder than Monica intended. “Some things can’t be fixed by talking”

Cindy stepped back like she’d been slapped. “I was just trying to help.”

“I don’t need help. I need people to leave me alone.”

Monica pushed past Cindy and walked toward the door, her legs feeling wobbly and unreliable. Behind her, she heard Cindy whisper something to another girl, probably about how strange Monica was acting.

She didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them think whatever they wanted. It didn’t matter anymore.

Mrs. Vans was waiting by her desk when Monica approached. The teacher’s face was kind but serious, the way adults looked when they were about to ask difficult questions.

“Sit down, Monica. Let’s talk.”

Monica perched on the edge of the e

chair beside Mrs. Vans’s desk, ready to run if the conversation got too uncomfortable.

“I’m worried about you,” Mrs.

said gently. “Your grades have dropped significantly over the past month. You seem

distracted in class, and your assignments have been incomplete or missing entirely.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

The question hung in the air. Busy with what? Busy lying awake at night listening to her father and Margaret screain at each other? Busy pretending she didn’t care that her mother was marrying someone else? Busy trying to hold herself together when everything inside her felt broken?

“Just… things at home.”

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Mrs. Vans nodded slowly. “I know your family has been going through some changes lately. That can be very stressful for a young person.”

Changes. Another polite word for disaster. For watching your parents destroy each other and taking everyone else down with them.

“I’m handling it fine.”

“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re struggling. And that’s okay, Monica. It’s normal to struggle when your world feels unstable.”

Monica’s throat tightened. She dug her fingernails into her palms, using the pain to keep herself focused. “I said I’m fine.”

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When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

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The question caught Monica off guard. Sleep? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept through the night without waking up in tears or from nightmares about her mother walking away forever

“I sleep enough.”

“What about eating? Are you eating regular meals?”

Food tasted like cardboard lately. Everything tasted like nothing. Monica had to force herself to swallow even the smallest

bites

“Yes.”

Mrs. Vans studied her face with the intensity of someone looking for clues. “Monica, I think it might be helpful if you talked to someone. A counselor, maybe. Someone who specializes in helping teenagers cope with family stress.”

“I don’t need a counselor. I just need everyone to stop asking me questions.”

“I understand that this feels overwhelming. But you don’t have to handle everything by yourself. There are people who want to help you.”

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“No one can help me.” The words slipped out before Monica could stop them. “No one can fix what’s broken.”

Mrs. Vans leaned forward, her voice gentle but persistent. “What feels broken, Monica?”

Everything. My family. My mother’s love. My father’s sanity. My own mind, which felt like it was cracking apart a little more each day.

“I have to go,” Monica

“Monica, wait.”

up abruptly. “I’ll miss my next class.”

But Monica was already walking toward

door, her backpack clutched against her chest like armor. She could feel Mrs.

Vans watching her, probably making mental notes about concerning behavior and warning signs.

Let her make notes. Let her call counselors and write reports. It wouldn’t change anything. Nothing could change what had already been broken beyond repair.

That evening, Monica found Margaret in the kitchen at six–thirty, standing over a bottle of wine like it held all the answers to her problems. The kitchen was a mess. Dishes piled in the sink, takeout containers scattered across the counter, empty wine bottles lined up by the trash like soldiers.

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Margaret looked up when Monica entered, her eyes already glassy from drinking. Her makeup was smeared, her hair tangled, and her expensive blouse had a stain down the front.

“Well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.” Margaret’s words were slightly slurred. “Where have you been, little princess?”

Monica stopped in the doorway, her backpack heavy on her shoulders. She’d been at the library, trying to study, trying to make sense of homework that felt impossible. But her mind kept wandering, kept losing focus until the words on the page turned into meaningless marks.

“I was studying”

“Studying?” Margaret laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Your grades are garbage, according to your father. What exactly are you studying? How to be a disappointment?”

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The words hit Menica like a slap. She’d been trying so hard to keep it together, to pretend everything was normal. But nothing was normal anymore, and everyone could see it.

“I’m doing my best.

“Your best?” Margaret poured more wine into her glass, sloshing it over the rim. “Your best is failing math and sleeping through English class?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Because your teacher called. Wanted to discuss your ‘concerning behavior.” Margaret made air quotes with her fingers, nearly dropping her wine glass. “Apparently, you’re becoming quite the problem child.”

Monica felt heat rise in her cheeks. Mrs. Vans had promised to keep their conversation private. But here was Margaret, drunk and cruel, throwing it in her face.

“It’s none of your business.”

“None of my business?” Margaret’s voice rose to a shriek. “I live in this house! I have to deal with your father’s stress about his failing children! Everything you do affects me!”

“I didn’t ask you to live here. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Margaret stepped closer, her wine glass trembling in her hand. “You think this is easy for me? You think I wanted to be stepmother to three ungrateful brats who blame me for everything wrong in their lives?”

“You destroyed our family. You broke up o

up our parents‘ marriage.”

“I didn’t break up anything! Your mother walked away! She abandoned you and your father and never looked back!”

“That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it? Where is she now, Monica? how you’re doing in school? Does

her fancy wedding with her rich boyfriend? Does she call you? Does she ask care that you’re falling apart?”

Each question was like a knife twisting in Monica’s chest. Because Margaret was right. Her mother hadn’t called. Hadn’t checked on her grades or her mental state or whether she was eating enough. Lucia was too busy building a new life to care about the old one she’d left behind.

“She sent us a wedding invitation,” Monica said weakly.

“A wedding invitation!” Margaret laughed again, sharp and bitter. “How thoughtful! Like you’re distant relatives instead of her own children! That’s not love, sweetie. That’s guilt.”

“Stop talking about my mother.”

“Why? Because the truth hurts? Your precious mother doesn’t want you anymore, Monica. She has a new daughter now. Lena Kane. The daughter who didn’t betray her.”

The words exploded in Monica’s brain like bombs. She could feel something snapping inside her chest, some last thread of control finally breaking.

“Shut up!”

“You want to know what I think? I think your mother was looking for an excuse to leave. You kids just gave her one.

“SHUT UP!”

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Monica’s stream echoed through the kitchen. Margaret stepped back, startled by the volume and fury in the young girl’s

voice

“You don’t know anything!” Monica’s voice tracked with emotion. “You’re just a gold–digging whore who stole someone else’s

husband!”

Margaret’s face went white, then red with rage. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

“I’ll speak to you however I want! You’re not my mother! You’re nothing! Just a pathetic woman who had to sleep with a married man to get a good life!”

“You little bitch.”

“At least I’m not a homewrecker! At least I don’t have to steal other people’s families because I can’t build my own!” Monica was screaming now, all the pain and anger of the past eight months pouring out like poison. “You’re nothing but a cheap replacement! A knock–off version of the real thing!”