The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 467

Chapter 229-2

I exhale hard.

+25 Points

“If you’re asking me to play God and give you absolute, concrete guarantees to cure your panic, I will fold this cloth right now and walk out of the room.”

A sharp prick of disappointment stings my chest.

“Then why even pull them?” I demand, my rage flickering back up like an ember. “What’s the point of all your herbs and your cards if you can’t tell me if Locke is dying? Or dead?”

“Because tarot isn’t a crystal ball, Zara. It’s a mirror,” Willow replies, completely unbothered by my bite. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t raise her voice, her boundary remaining solid as iron. “It doesn’t tell us what will hap pen with absolute certainty, because human beings have free will, and the world is full of violent, unpredictable movement.”

“I–what?”

“The cards reflect the spirit. They reflect the hidden currents of energy flowing between souls right now, in this exact breath.”

She reaches down and unties the black silk ribbon holding the velvet cloth closed. She unfolds the fabric, revealing a worn, beautifully preserved deck of tarot cards, their edges gilded in faded gold leaf.

“If I pull a card that looks terrifying, you’ll spiral into despair,” Willow continues. “If I pull a card that promises a miracle, you’ll sit by that window like a statue and wait for magic instead of fighting for your life and your child. I will not feed your terror, and I will not feed your illusions. Do you understand me?”

I stare at her, my throat tight. The sheer clarity of her conviction acts like a bucket of ice water over my hysteria.

She isn’t being cruel. She’s protecting me from my own desperation, refusing to let me use her spiritual practice as a crutch to escape the hard, terrifying reality of the moment.

“I understand,” I say softly, bowing my head. “I’m sorry, Willow.

“Don’t apologize for loving him so fiercely that it burns you,” Willow says, her expression softening into pure warmth. “Just don’t let the fire consume the house while you’re still inside it.”

She shuffles the deck. The sound of the heavy cardstock sliding together is crisp and rhythmic, like dry leaves dancing in the wind. Willow closes her eyes for three long seconds, taking a deep, belly–expanding

breath.

When she opens her eyes, the airy, ethereal light is back in them, but anchored by a profound, rooted strength.

She places the deck in the middle of the rug between us.

“Put your left hand on the deck,” she instructs. “The hand closest to your heart. Think of Locke. Don’t think of the mud, don’t think of the guns, don’t think of Vane. Think of his spirit, think of the man who holds you in the dark when the world feels too heavy.”

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