A Feast for One

"Mrs. Sterling, the food's gone cold again. Should I reheat it?" The housekeeper’s voice carried a sharp edge of impatience, slicing through the heavy silence of the dining room.

Celine sat at the head of the long mahogany table. The grand dining room, usually a symbol of the Sterling family's immense wealth, felt like a cavernous tomb tonight. She stared at the elaborate spread before her—roasted lamb rack, seared scallops, a rich truffle risotto. All of it untouched. All of it freezing over for the third time tonight.

She shifted her gaze to the grandfather clock in the corner. It was nearly midnight.

Then, she looked up at the housekeeper, whose face was twisted into a scowl of barely concealed frustration.

"Just clear it away," Celine said, forcing a faint, weary smile.

Today was her birthday. She had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, meticulously preparing Gideon’s favorite dishes and baking Rowan a batch of his beloved chocolate chip cookies. She had foolishly hoped they could share a simple family dinner. But neither her husband nor her four-year-old son had bothered to show up. No phone calls. No text messages. Just a suffocating silence that made the air in the room feel thick and unbreathable.

The housekeeper let out a loud, dramatic sigh and began snatching plates off the table. Her movements were swift and deliberately careless, the porcelain clattering harshly.

"Mrs. Sterling, not to be rude," the housekeeper muttered, her tone suggesting she meant to be exactly that, "but why go to all this trouble? You knew neither Mr. Sterling nor Rowan would be back tonight. Yet you insisted on cooking a massive feast. I’ve reheated these dishes three times. It's exhausting."

Celine lowered her eyes to her empty plate. She didn't say a word.

Emboldened by her silence, the housekeeper scoffed. "Honestly, as a wife and a mother, you’re not exactly winning any awards. If you were doing a good job, why would they both avoid you like the plague?"

The words felt like a physical blow to the chest, but Celine had no energy left to defend herself.

"You're right," Celine whispered, a bitter curve forming on her lips. "I've failed spectacularly."

In this sprawling mansion, her status was lower than the dust on the floorboards. Even the hired help felt comfortable tossing insults at her face. They all took their cues from the master of the house. Gideon treated her like an invisible ghost, and Rowan treated her like a nuisance. Why should the housekeeper show her an ounce of respect?

Seeing Celine’s quiet, defeated demeanor, a brief flicker of pity crossed the housekeeper’s stern face. She paused her frantic clearing and shook her head.

"People always cling to things that don't belong to them," the housekeeper muttered, softening her voice just a fraction. "If I were you, I'd let go. Let it all go. You'd be doing yourself a favor. Maybe you'd be doing everyone else a favor, too."

Celine didn’t respond. The housekeeper’s blunt advice sank deep into her mind, heavy as lead.

The dining room fell silent again, save for the scraping of plates. The crystal chandelier above cast a warm, golden glow over the room, but the light couldn't pierce the biting chill settling into Celine's bones. Her chest tightened. A familiar, hollow ache throbbed behind her ribs. Four years of marriage. Four years of pouring every ounce of her soul into this family, only to end up sitting alone in a cold, empty room.

The housekeeper finished stacking the dishes and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Celine alone in the vast space.

Celine stood up. Her legs felt stiff, her body weighed down by an invisible gravity. She walked over to the wall and switched off the main lights. The darkness rushed in, swift and merciful.

She picked up a small, white bakery box from the side table. Cradling it carefully against her chest, she made her way up the grand, sweeping staircase toward the master bedroom.

The bedroom was freezing. The chill seeped through her thin silk dress, biting directly into her skin. She walked over to the plush velvet sofa positioned by the floor-to-ceiling window and sat down. Outside, the moon hung low in the night sky, casting long, pale shadows across the hardwood floor.

Celine opened the bakery box. Inside sat a small, delicate strawberry shortcake. It was a beautiful dessert, meant for joyous celebration, but in the gloom of the bedroom, it looked tragic.

She lifted the cake out and set it on the glass coffee table. From a small drawer, she retrieved a single pink candle and pressed it into the center of the soft icing. She struck a match. The flame flared to life, casting a small, flickering circle of warmth in the suffocating darkness of the room.

She stared into the dancing flame. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Just as she closed her eyes to make a wish she knew would never come true, a sharp ping shattered the quiet.

Her phone vibrated on the table. The sudden noise made her jump, her heart hammering against her ribs. She reached out with trembling fingers and picked it up. A WhatsApp message glowed on the screen.

It was a video file. The sender’s name made the blood in Celine's veins run cold: Daphne Winslow.

Daphne. Gideon’s childhood sweetheart. The woman he was supposed to marry before Celine entered the picture. The woman who had returned from abroad a month ago, sickly and fragile, instantly commanding Gideon's undivided attention.

Celine tapped the play button.

The screen illuminated the dark room, showing a bright, luxurious VIP hospital suite. The camera angle was slightly tilted, held by Daphne herself. In the center of the frame sat Gideon. He was leaning forward in a chair pulled close to the hospital bed. Beside him, perched on the edge of the mattress, was Rowan.

"Gid, I'm so sorry to keep you here so late," Daphne’s voice drifted through the phone speaker. It was soft, breathless, and punctuated by a delicate, pitiful cough.

Gideon reached out and gently tucked a stray blanket around Daphne’s shoulders. His handsome face, usually set in lines of cold indifference when he looked at Celine, was relaxed. His eyes held a depth of tenderness Celine hadn't seen in years.

"It's no trouble," Gideon said. His voice was warm, deep, and laced with an indulgent affection that made Celine’s breath catch in her throat.

He had been with her all day. While Celine was burning her fingers in the kitchen trying to make a perfect birthday dinner, her husband was sitting by another woman’s bedside, playing the devoted caretaker.

A self-deprecating smile twisted Celine's lips. When was the last time Gideon had spoken to her without a harsh edge of irritation? Every conversation they shared lately felt like a battle. His voice, once her safe haven, had become a weapon he used to cut her down.

"Daphne, you don't need to worry," a small, bright voice chirped from the video.

Rowan scrambled up the mattress. His little chubby hands reached out, and he snuggled himself right into Daphne’s embrace. Daphne wrapped her thin arms around the boy, resting her chin on his dark hair.

"Daddy and I love staying here with you," Rowan declared, his face glowing with pure, unadulterated joy. "We don't wanna go home."

Celine’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the phone.

Then, her four-year-old son looked up at the camera and delivered the final, fatal blow.

"I love having Daphne around. I wish she was my mommy."

The video cut to black.

Celine sat frozen. The silence in the bedroom roared in her ears. She stared at her dark reflection in the blank phone screen. Her hands began to shake, a violent tremor that started in her fingertips and spread through her entire body. She dropped the phone onto the glass table. It landed with a sharp clack.

She looked at the lone candle burning on the strawberry cake. The wax was melting down, pooling over the white icing.

Four years. She had almost died on the operating table giving birth to Rowan. She had endured endless humiliation from Gideon’s family, sacrificed her career, and swallowed her pride every single day, all to build a warm home for the two of them.

And for what?

To be discarded. To be replaced. To be called a nuisance by the child she brought into this world.

A strange, numbing calm suddenly washed over her. The crushing sorrow that had choked her for months evaporated, leaving behind an icy, hard resolve. The chains of guilt and desperate longing snapped, one by one.

Celine leaned forward. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold air of the room.

"Happy birthday to me," she whispered into the darkness.

She blew out the candle. The room plunged back into pitch black.

It was over.

Gideon returned to the Sterling mansion well past midnight.

As his luxury sedan rolled up the driveway, he frowned. The house was shrouded in darkness. Usually, no matter how late he worked or where he had been, a warm yellow light always spilled from the porch and the living room windows. Celine always waited up for him. Tonight, the facade of the mansion looked cold and lifeless.

He parked the car and stepped out, the crisp night air biting at his face. He opened the rear door and unbuckled a sleeping Rowan from his car seat. Carrying the boy inside, he was met by the housekeeper in the foyer.

Gideon handed the sleepy child over without a word. His jaw was tight with irritation. He shrugged off his tailored suit jacket and strode toward the sweeping staircase. His brisk, sharp footsteps echoed in the silent hall.

When he reached the second floor, he noticed a sliver of light bleeding from under the master bedroom door. His grim expression eased just a fraction. He pushed the door open, ready to brush past whatever minor grievance Celine had prepared for him.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Celine sat upright on the velvet sofa by the window. She was still dressed in her clothes from the day, her posture unnervingly straight, her face void of any emotion. Next to her feet sat a sleek, black, tightly packed suitcase.

On the glass coffee table between them lay a stack of pristine white papers.

Gideon's brief moment of relief vanished, instantly replaced by a wall of cold annoyance. He ran a hand through his dark hair, glaring at the suitcase.

"Celine, what is this?" His voice was clipped, carrying a dangerous edge. "Another one of your stunts? I’m exhausted. I don’t have the patience for your drama tonight."

The air in the room crackled with a heavy, suffocating tension. In the past, Celine would have flinched at his tone. She would have scrambled to apologize, desperate to smooth over the cracks in their fractured marriage.

Tonight, she didn't even blink.

She looked at him. Really looked at him. The broad shoulders, the sharp jawline, the piercing eyes that had once held her heart captive. Now, looking at him brought her nothing but bone-deep weariness. She didn't want to explain. She didn't want to fight. She just wanted out.

"Gideon," she said, her voice quiet but steady as stone. "I want a divorce."

Gideon stared at her for a long second, then let out a harsh, exasperated sigh. He reached up, roughly loosening his silk tie, and tossed it onto the edge of the bed. He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the coffee table.

His gaze caught on the small bakery box and the melted candle stuck into the center of a stale cake.

He paused. A flicker of realization crossed his sharp features, followed quickly by a shadow of guilt.

"It's your birthday today?" he asked, his tone dropping its aggressive edge, replaced by faint disbelief.

He had forgotten. His assistant hadn't put it on his schedule, and it hadn't even crossed his mind.

Celine shook her head. The gesture was dismissive, almost pitying. "It doesn't matter."

She reached forward and pushed the stack of papers across the glass table, closer to him. The bold, black letters at the top of the page read: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

"Sign it," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "Let's end this."

Gideon’s brows slammed together. The brief flash of guilt vanished, swallowed by a rising tide of fury and confusion. He felt like she was overreacting, putting on a theatrical show just to punish him for a simple slip of memory.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice echoing loudly in the quiet room. "Because I forgot a birthday? Don't you think you’re being a little melodramatic? I was at the hospital. Daphne’s condition took a turn. You know she doesn’t have family here."

Celine felt a dry laugh bubble up in her throat, but she swallowed it down. He was still defending Daphne. He was still making excuses. It didn't matter.

Gideon looked down at the papers. A mocking smirk curled the corner of his lips. He stretched out his hand, pinching the top page between two long fingers, and lifted it. He flipped through the document with an air of casual disdain, inspecting it as if it were a poorly written business proposal.

He let out a short, harsh laugh. "You ask for nothing? You're giving up your shares? You're leaving empty-handed?"

He dropped the papers back onto the table. His dark eyes locked onto her face, filled with arrogant certainty. "Celine, be rational. Where would you even go without me? You have no job. You have no connections in Aldoria. You rely on the Sterling name for everything."

A bitter, jagged laugh finally slipped past Celine’s lips. Her heart pounded, heavy and loud in her ears.

So that was it. That was why he treated her like dirt. He thought she was trapped. He believed she was a helpless parasite clinging to his wealth, with no family to fall back on and nowhere to run. He thought he could drain her of her love, her youth, and her dignity, and she would just sit here and take it because she had no other choice.

What an arrogant, self-satisfied jerk, her inner voice hissed.

But outwardly, she maintained a terrifying calm. Her silence stretched thin and tight, sharper than any screaming match.

She looked him dead in the eye and offered a cold, mirthless smile. "Where I go is none of your concern. All you need to do is sign the papers and meet me at City Hall tomorrow morning."

Her voice lacked any trace of the warmth or submission he was used to. The icy detachment in her tone could cut through steel.

Gideon’s jaw clenched. The veins in his neck stood out against his skin. His temper flared, his pride stung by her brazen dismissal. "Have you really thought this through, Celine? Once you walk out that door, there’s no coming back."

Celine didn’t bother to argue. She picked up a silver pen from the table and tossed it lightly. It clattered against the glass, stopping right next to his hand.

"Stop wasting time," she said flatly. "Sign it."

Her unwavering resolve hit him like a physical blow. Gideon faltered. He stared at her, a fleeting sense of unease creeping into his chest. This wasn't a tantrum. The soft, adoring eyes that used to follow his every move now looked at him with an unyielding determination he had never seen before. She meant it.

He dragged in a deep breath and rubbed his temples, his frustration mounting. "Fine. If you want to play this game, divorce it is," he snapped, his voice heavy with finality. "But Rory’s custody? That’s off the table. You're not taking my son anywhere."

Before Celine could even form a response, the bedroom door flew open.

A small, pajama-clad figure burst into the room. Rowan had woken up from the shouting. He dashed across the floor and threw his arms around Gideon’s leg, clutching his father’s trousers in a tight grip.

Rowan turned his head and glared at Celine. His chubby face was twisted into a scowl of pure hatred.

"I'm staying with Daddy!" Rowan yelled, his shrill voice piercing the heavy air. "I don't want to go with you! You're a horrible mom. You're a witch!"

Gideon frowned deeply. "Rory," he snapped, his sharp tone startling the boy. "Watch your mouth."

But Rowan was too worked up. Tears streaked down his red face, but his expression remained stubbornly defiant. He pointed a small finger at Celine.

"I'm not wrong!" he screamed, his words tumbling out in a vicious, practiced rush. "You're just a useless housewife! Grandma and Aunt Tessa said so! You just stay home and do nothing!"

Celine sat perfectly still. The words hit her face like slaps, one after another.

Rowan wasn't finished. "If you hadn't come between Daddy and Daphne, she would be my mom right now! I hate you!"

Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose, an exhausted sigh leaving his lips. "Rowan, enough—"

"I don't care about Rowan," Celine interrupted.

Her voice sliced through the room like a freshly sharpened blade, cutting off Gideon and silencing the crying child instantly.

She stood up from the sofa. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress, her movements calm and measured. She looked down at the boy she had nearly died to bring into the world, the boy she had spent four years protecting, loving, and nurturing. There was no love left in her eyes. Only a vast, empty wasteland.

"I don't care about Rowan," Celine repeated, her tone stripped of any maternal warmth. "I don't care about anything in this house. I just want a divorce."

Her words hung in the air, final and devastating. There was no room for negotiation. No room for second-guessing.

Gideon’s lips tightened into a thin, grim line. His expression hardened into sheer disbelief. He stared at her, trying to find a crack in her armor, a sign that she was bluffing. He couldn't find one.

To refuse to take Rowan after the divorce? After everything she had been through? It felt unthinkable. Gideon remembered the blood, the frantic doctors, the sheer terror of the delivery room. He remembered how Celine had poured every ounce of her soul into raising the boy, hovering over his crib when he was sick, dedicating her entire existence to keeping him safe and loved.

And now, she was looking at their son like he was a stranger on the street. She didn't want him. She didn't want anything to do with him.

Rowan stood frozen against his father’s leg. The little boy was stunned into silence, his sobs catching in his throat. He stared at his mother in shock. But the shock quickly melted away, replaced by a twisted, ugly smile that looked unnatural on a child's face.

"Good," Rowan sneered, wiping a tear from his cheek. "Daddy, hurry up and divorce her. Then Daphne can be my mommy. Daphne buys me toys and never yells at me."

The boy’s cruel words poisoned the air, choking whatever microscopic remnants of warmth were left in the room.

Gideon ignored his son's outburst entirely. His sharp, predator-like gaze remained fixed on Celine, sizing her up. He stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over her.

His voice dropped an octave, radiating a freezing, commanding authority. "I'll ask you one last time, Celine. Are you sure about this divorce?"

Celine tilted her chin up, meeting his piercing stare without a single flinch. Her heart was a graveyard.

"Yes."

Gideon snatched the silver pen from the table. He flipped to the last page of the agreement. The sound of the pen carving his signature into the paper was loud and violent in the quiet room. He pressed down so hard the paper nearly tore beneath the nib.

He threw the pen down.

Without a second of hesitation, Celine reached forward and picked up her copy of the signed agreement. The thick stack of paper felt surprisingly light in her hands. The weight pressing down on her chest for four long years suddenly lifted. It felt oddly, intoxicatingly liberating.

She turned away from him and grabbed the handle of her black suitcase. The wheels rolled smoothly over the hardwood floor.

"9:00 a.m. tomorrow," she said, her voice steady and echoing with unmistakable finality. "City Hall. Don't be late."

She took two steps toward the bedroom door.

Suddenly, a large hand shot out and seized her wrist in a vice-like grip.

Celine stopped. She looked down. Gideon’s broad hand wrapped entirely around her delicate wrist. The prominent veins along the back of his hand pulsed with raw, masculine tension. That hand, those long fingers, that undeniable strength—it was an allure that had once kept her utterly captivated. She had spent years obsessed with those hands, craving their touch, desperately hoping they would hold her with love.

Now, feeling his heat against her skin sent a wave of sheer, physical revulsion rolling through her stomach. His touch felt like dirty, heavy shackles.

"Let go," she said icily.

She didn't try to pull away, but her voice was stripped of every single drop of humanity. It was the voice of someone speaking to garbage.

Her thoughts churned with bitter irony. What was the point of him clinging to her now? Wasn't this divorce exactly what everyone wanted? Gideon, his snobby family, the gossiping housekeeper, and even her own flesh and blood—they all seemed thrilled to see her gone. Why the sudden grip?

Gideon looked down at her, his eyes dark and swirling with an unreadable emotion. His lips curled into a nasty, mocking smile.

"In such a hurry to leave?" he taunted, his tone dripping with dark amusement. "What? Got yourself a lover on the side already? Someone waiting in a car outside to whisk you away?"

A deep, bone-crushing exhaustion swept over Celine. It sank into her very marrow. She didn't have the energy to feel insulted. She just felt pity for the man standing in front of her.

She turned her head and looked straight into his dark eyes. Her words slipped out, quiet, sharp, and slicing through the tension like a surgical knife.

"Gideon, I have never hated you more than I do right now."

The words hung between them, heavy and absolute.

For a split second, the arrogant mask on Gideon’s face cracked. Her words seemed to shake something deep inside him. His grip on her wrist faltered. His fingers loosened, and he let her arm slowly slip from his grasp.

His tone shifted, softening just a fraction, sounding almost imploring. "It's late, Celine. Even if you're set on leaving, you could wait until morning. It's freezing outside."

A dry, humorless laugh escaped her lips. She pulled her hand back, rubbing her wrist where his skin had touched hers, as if wiping away a stain. Her gaze remained unwavering.

She didn't spare him another glance. She didn't look down at Rowan, who was still glaring at her from behind Gideon's leg.

She tightened her grip on her suitcase and walked out of the master bedroom.

She descended the grand staircase, crossed the massive foyer, and pulled open the heavy oak front door. The biting night wind rushed in, whipping her hair around her face, but she didn't shiver.

She stepped out and pulled the door shut behind her. The loud, definitive click of the lock echoed in the vast emptiness of the house.

It was the house that had imprisoned her for four long years. Now, she was finally out. Her departure felt like breaking out of a cage, but as she walked down the long, dark driveway into the night, the weight of her pain and disillusionment lingered, trailing behind her like a shadow she couldn't quite shake.