Rise of the Formidable Ex-wife (Lucia and Alex) novel Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

The painters arrived on Tuesday morning. Three men with drop cloths and brushes. Margaret led them through the house. pointing at walls.

“This hallway. White. Not cream. Not beige. White.”

Monica watched from the stairs. The hallway had been pale yellow. Her mother had chosen it years ago.

Her mother. The one she had laughed at. That night. At the party. When everyone turned on her.

Monica’s stomach twisted. She pushed the thought away.

“And this living room. Gray. Dark gray. Modern.”

By noon, the blue was gone. Covered. Erased. The warmth of home replaced by cold surfaces and hard edges. Sleek furniture replaced the couch where she used to read, the armchair her father had sat in for seventeen years, the coffee table worn by family dinners.

Marie. the housekeeper, had worked for the family for twelve years. She stood silently in the doorway, jaw tight.

“Marie,” Margaret said, her voice smooth. “Have Elena help the movers Thursday. I want all old furniture out by noon.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hart.”

Mrs. Hart. A title that had belonged to someone else. Someone Monica had helped destroy.

By Thursday, it was gone. Every familiar piece replaced with something cold, beautiful, untouchable. Family photos followed: Monica’s first day of school, Lucas’s soccer trophy, Ria’s graduation. Margaret packed each one into boxes without hesitation.

“These are cluttered,” she said. “A home should be clean. Minimal.”

Marie moved silently behind her, helping pack the past away. In their place, abstract paintings. Geometric shapes. No faces. No memories. No proof of before.

Monica stood in her bedroom that night. The only room untouched. On her nightstand, a small frame: her mother holding baby Monica in the hospital, smiling.

Monica picked it up. That smile had been real once. Before she ruined it. Before she chose Margaret’s side at the party. Before she laughed while her mother cried. Before she stayed silent when she should have spoken.

A knock on the door.

Monica shoved the frame into the drawer. “Come in.”

Margaret entered. Silk pajamas. Perfect hair. “Just checking on you before bed.”

“I’m fine.”

Margaret’s eyes swept the room. Hunting. “Your room could use updating. Something more mature.”

“I like it how it is.”

Thirteen now. Time to grow up.” Margaret opened the nightstand drawer before Monica could She pulled out the photo. Eyes cold. Hands smooth, but intent

stop

her.

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Chapter 20

“What’s this?”

“Just a picture.” Monica said.

“Of your mother.” Margaret stated.

“Yes.”

“One picture leads to obsession.” Margaret held it up, calm as a winter morning. “Your mother is gone. You made your choice. Remember? At the party. You chose your father. Chose me. Chose the future.”

Monica’s throat tightened. Yes. She had chosen.

“Keeping her photo won’t change what you did. Won’t erase how you laughed. How you watched her leave without a word.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because guilt makes people sentimental. Makes them romanticize the past. Forget why things happened.”

Margaret gripped the frame. Cracked the glass.

“No.” Monica lunged.

Margaret tore it again. And again. The photo became pieces.

“There.” Margaret dropped them in the wastebasket. “Better. Now you can stop pretending you’re a victim. Live with your

choice.”

She left. Door closed gently behind her.

Monica stared at the trash. At her mother’s face shredded. At the mother she had abandoned.

The next evening, Margaret set the table herself. Marie and Elena offered to help. Margaret refused.

“Dinner should be an event. A ritual. Not just food.”

Catered. Plated perfectly. No smell of garlic. No warmth of home.

Marco sat at the head. Margaret at the other end. Children between.

“Elbows off the table, Ria.”

Ria pulled back. Cheeks red.

“So,” Margaret said, “How was your day?”

“Fine,” Ria said.

“Fine isn’t an answer. What specifically happened?”

“I had a test in calculus.”

“You think? Or you know?” Margaret sipped her wine. “Confidence is important. Women who say ‘I think‘ instead of ‘I know‘ are not taken seriously.”

“I did well,” Ria said.

“Better.” Margaret smiled. “Much better. Lucas, football practice?”

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Chapter 20

Lucas shrugged. “Good.”

“Good how?”

Coach said I improved.

“At what?”

“Footwork. Speed.”

Margaret set down her fork. “Articulation matters. ‘Stuff‘ isn’t specific. Try again.”

Lucas’s face reddened. “Coach said my footwork and speed improved.”

“Much better. Precision matters.” She cut her meat with exact, perfect movements. “You must practice speaking with authority. Especially if you want to play in college.”

Marco said nothing. Eyes unreadable.

“Monica,” Margaret turned. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Just eating.”

“And slouching. Sit straight.”

Monica straightened. Hated herself for obeying.

“Better, Margaret said. “Your mother never taught proper table manners. How you hold your fork, how you chew. All wrong.”

Monica’s hand froze.

“Not criticism. Observation. We can fix it.”

Ria’s fork clattered. “Mom taught us plenty.”

Margaret’s brows lifted. “Then why eat like a child at a cafeteria instead of a formal dinner?”

“This isn’t formal,” Monica whispered.

“Every meal is a chance to practice excellence. Or mediocrity. Your choice.” Margaret sipped her wine. “Your mother chose mediocrity. I hope you choose differently.”

Mediocrity. The word from the wedding speech. The word their father used for seventeen years of marriage.

Lucas pushed back. “May I be excused?”

“No.” Margaret’s voice was calm but firm. “Sit.”

Marco cut his meat. Chewed. Said nothing.

“Walking away from uncomfortable conversations is weakness. We face things in this family. We don’t run.”

Lucas muttered, “I wanted to do homework.”

“Then say that. Clearly. With respect.”

I wasn’t

“No? Then what was that display?”

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“Nothing,” Lucas whispered.

“Exactly. Nothing. Which is what you’ll amount to if you don’t control your emotions and communicate properly.”

She finished her wine. “I’m trying to help you. To be better than what you were.”

Marco finally spoke. “Margaret. Maybe we should-

“Should what?” Her smile sweet. “I’m teaching them basics. You wanted opportunities for them. That requires polish.”

“I know. I just-”

“You just what?”

He looked at the children. At Monica, near tears. Ria, angry. Lucas, humiliated.

Then at Margaret. His choice. His future.

“Nothing.” he said. “You’re right. They need guidance.”

“Exactly.” Margaret stood. “Clear the table.”

They moved in silence, stacking plates, carrying glasses. Margaret corrected posture, manners, stacking. Marie watched. Silent. Full of something. Pity, maybe. Or disappointment.

When the kitchen was clean, Margaret dismissed them. “Bed by ten. School night.”

They fled. Marco remained, pouring whiskey. Third glass. Margaret came behind him, arms around his waist.

“You did well. Supporting me. They need structure.”

“They need gentleness too,” he said.

“Gentleness makes them soft. Look at what happened with Lucia. We’re fixing that.”

“Margaret. They’re children.”

“They’re almost adults. Old enough to learn excellence or settle for ordinary.” She kissed his neck. “You want them extraordinary. Don’t you?”

“Yes. But-”

“But nothing. Trust me.”

Marco drank. Burned going down. Wondered when dinner became inspection, when home became a museum. When children looked trapped.

But Margaret was right. About structure. About excellence. About raising them properly.

Even if it felt wrong. Even if Monica’s eyes were red. Even if Lucas avoided his gaze. Even if Ria’s hands shook.

Upstairs, Monica lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

She thought of the photo pieces in her wastebasket. The mother she had betrayed.

Dinner Margaret’s cruelry. Marco’s silence. The anniversary party. The laughter. The choice.

She had smiled that night. Chosen Margaret. Made it happen.

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Chapter 20

Now, they lived with the consequences. Margaret’s rules. Father’s weakness. Their own guilt.

Monica closed her eyes.

She didn’t miss her mother because she left.

She missed her because she had helped drive her away.

And now Margaret made sure they all paid for it.

The past wasn’t gone.

It was in every cold room. Every cruel word. Every silent dinner.

They had chosen this.

And now they had to live it.

Monica’s hand brushed the nightstand drawer. The torn photo pieces called to her.

One piece slipped through her fingers. She stared at it.

Maybe she couldn’t change the past. But maybe she could save the memory. Somehow.

Somewhere deep inside, something refused to accept Margaret’s rewriting of their lives.

The choice had been made. But maybe the story wasn’t over.

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