C3: Echoes of betrayal

A chill wind whipped through the city streets, gnawing at exposed skin and nipping at the heels of hurried office workers.

Mornings and evenings brought cooler temperatures, prompting office workers to clutch styrofoam cups of steaming coffee as they rushed to their destinations.

Amidst the bundled-up crowd, a woman in beige track shorts and a tee shirt, seemingly impervious to the cold, emerged from a 2000 Atlantic blue Mustang convertible.

Her long, usually intricately braided hair, was flung back in a messy bun, revealing puffy eyes and mascara tracks that painted her face with raccoon like stripes.

Ignoring the curious glances, she headed to the elevator and ascended to the seventh floor’s mother and child wing VIP.

She stopped in front of room 409.

Pushing the door open, she entered a spacious and luxuriously decorated room, resembling a deluxe hotel room.

A petite blonde woman lay on the bed, with her eyes closed.

Her delicate features serene in the soft light. Beside her, nestled in an Ivy Rose crib, a tiny baby, barely three days old, bundled up in blue,slept peacefully, his tiny fists curled into miniature fists.

The visitor stood, observing for a while, then reached in to gently stroked the baby's face.

The infant stirred, grunting in his sleep. Tears welled up as the woman continued to caress the baby's cheek.

Unable to resist, she picked up the three-day-old baby and held him close to her; his warmth a stark contrast to the icy storm raging within her.

The baby, startled by the sudden movement, squirmed and cried.

The woman, her voice choked with a cocktail of grief and rage, crooned a lullaby, her fingers gently stroking his cheek.

The blonde woman's eyes flew open, then widened with fear as they landed on the woman holding her son.

She sat up, her heart thumping wildly.

"Monique!’’ she whispered fearfully, her eyes locked on the baby in the arms of the other woman.

Monique paid her no heed, coaxing the baby back to sleep.

‘’Monique, please…’’

Lydia’s pleas fell on deaf ears as Monique stared coldly.

‘’Monique, please," Lydia begged, desperation creeping into her voice. "Put the baby down. He has nothing to do with this."

Monique finally looked up, her eyes glacial. "Is that what you tell yourself to ease the guilt?" she spat, her voice laced with venom.

Lydia's face paled. "Monique," she pleaded again, her voice thick with tears. "Put Alex down, please. He's just a baby."

Monique flinched. "Alex?" she asked, a flicker of pain crossing her features. "You named him Alexander?"

Lydia nodded, her eyes downcast.

"Who chose that name?" Monique asked, her voice barely a whisper, a tremor of fear laced with a deeper hurt.

In the next second, a brittle laugh escaped Monique's lips, a hollow sound that echoed in the opulent room.

"Clinton," she mumbled, her eyes burning with unshed tears. "You are truly cruel."

The baby, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, started to cry again. Monique, as if suddenly scalded, placed him back in his crib.

Lydia, her fear momentarily forgotten, rushed to her son, cradling him close, her eyes never leaving Monique's face.

Tears blurred the world around Monique.

Lydia rushed forward, scooped him up and held him close to her with a heavy sigh of relief while eyeing Monique warily.

"Alex," Monique mumbled, misty eyes fixated on the mother and son. Her gaze, cold and hostile, sent shivers down Lydia's spine.

"I think you better leave," Lydia said, forcing the words out.

"Alex, who named him?"

Silence. Lydia's apologetic eyes told her everything.

Another bitter laugh escaped Monique's lips. "Doesn't matter, does it? You both did this on purpose."

Lydia frowned. "Monique..."

Monique's body trembled, fury, a coiled viper within. "Shut up!" she hissed. "Don't even dare."

Tears glistened on her cheeks as her shoulders slumped. She turned to leave, her purpose for the visit forgotten.

"I'm sorry," Lydia called from behind, a faint echo as Monique reached the door."I just thought it was a suitable name..."

Monique turned back, covering the distance in big strides. The ferocious look on Monique's face sent unadulterated fear down her spine.

Before Lydia could react, her cheek stung from pain. Staggering back, her other cheek felt a backhand.

"I told you to shut up!" Monique bit out the words.

Lydia gasped in shock, unable to utter a word, just as the baby started crying.

Monique turned to leave as the door opened. The gay mood of the new arrivals, a stark contrast to the dark and turbulent emotions of the room's occupants.

Clinton walked in with an elegant elderly woman, pushing a suitcase and carrying a bouquet of wine-red roses.

The smiles on their faces dropped.

"Monique?" the woman called out in shock.

Clinton dropped the bouquet and rushed to Lydia's side.

Tears slipped down her swollen cheeks. "Are you okay?" he asked gently, pulling her into his protective embrace.

Monique watched them from the corner of eyes, her heart a cauldron of resentment. The world she'd known, the future she'd envisioned, lay in ashes around her. And amidst the smoke, a name hung heavy in the air – a name that had ignited the inferno.

Silence stretched, holding them hostage, thick and stifling.

After a while , Monique turned to live. Her footsteps were like ice cracks on a frozen lake, each one echoing the growing tension.

''Monique!" Clinton boomed, his voice cracking with a mix of authority and sorrow. "Explain yourself. Now!"

Monique ignored him and walked out with her head held high. She walked past the woman like she was air.

The woman sighed heavily.

''Monique, who allowed you to leave? Don't you need to explain yourself?"

All he got was the thunderous thud of the door.

Clinton clenched his fist, burning a hole at the door with his glare. His knuckles were white from the barely concealed fury.

''Calm down," Constance said, walking towards them. She scooped up the crying baby, her touch magically silencing the baby's cries. As she settled into the rocking chair, her gaze met the tear-streaked face of Lydia and the haunted look in her eyes.

"You have wronged her in so many ways," Constance said, her voice low but cutting. "You should have expected this storm, Clinton. I warned you, you can't have your cake and eat it."

Clinton flinched at the accusation, but Lydia guiltily looked down, then rubbed her face, the memory of the stinging slap fresh on her cheeks.

''That doesn't give her the right to lay her hands on anyone.'' Clinton hissed.

''No, but she is well within her rights.''

''Mom!''

''If you had listened to me, we wouldn't be in this situation. Now, there are two children involved and a very angry scorned woman. And I can promise you, this is not the end of it.''

Constance Beaumont sighed.''Lydia get a nurse to put a cold compression on your cheeks.''

''Yes, mother,'' Lydia answered meekly.

''You should go after her.''

''Mom!'' Clinton choked out, his protest strangled by a knot of anger and disbelief.

Constance cut him off. ''No matter what, she's still the mother to your daughter.''

***

Suffocating pain clawed at Monique's throat, each rasping breath a struggle.

Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled down the street; a soul lost and adrift in a sea of her grief. Bumping into oblivious figures, she barely registered their curses, her mind consumed by the smoldering embers of betrayal.

'’Alex,’'she whispered, the name a desolate echo on her lips. It was a talisman against the encroaching darkness, a fragile thread tethering her to a life ripped apart.

She found herself at the columbarium, drawn by an invisible force. The small blue urn, cool against her trembling fingers, bore the inscription: "Alexander Beaumont; forever in our hearts."

Each stroke of the name felt like a fresh wound.

Collapsing onto the cold marble floor, she leaned against the smooth surface, the chill seeping into her bones a faint echo of the icy grip of grief that held her captive. Memories, sharp and vivid, flooded her mind.

Three years ago, on a rainy morning filled with mist, a motorcyclist rode along a winding road approaching a Y junction. The raindrops painted the world in shimmering hues grey, as if nature itself was weeping. Sadly, the rider lost control, and his bike skidded off the wet and icy road like a shooting star in distress.

The chaotic dance of destiny continued as the motorbike crashed into a sturdy Kia Seltos SUV. The impact was forceful, sending the SUV into an uncontrollable spin across the wet road.

The climax of this unfortunate ballet occurred when the Kia Seltos collided head-on with an elegant Mercedes-Benz E-Class luxury sedan. The once-elegant car twirled in the air, losing its grace and ending its performance as it plunged into the river below.

Meanwhile, the Kia Seltos clung precariously to the edge of the bridge, held in place by a twisted guardrail that seemed to pierce through it like a darkened sword.

Inside the now-wrecked Mercedes-Benz were Clinton, his 2-year-old daughter Sahara, and

9-month-old Alexander. They had been on their way to Sahara's classmate's birthday party, but joy turned into a haunting symphony of sirens and distant thunder.

When Clinton came to, he was being rescued from the wreckage by firefighters. Sahara, though her fate unknown, had already been taken to the hospital.

Unfortunately, Alexander had drowned.

The unimaginable loss of Alexander lingered like a heavy mist in the air.

Later investigations revealed the tragic origin – the motorbike rider succumbed to a

sudden medical incident, unwittingly setting the wheels of tragedy in motion.

Behind the wheel of the Kia Seltos was Lydia, a newcomer to town, her first day of work marked by an unexpected baptism of chaos.

Sahara recovered in no time while Lydia slipped into a two week long coma. On the other hand, Clinton had sustained some fractures and had to use a wheelchair and clutches For some time.

That rainy morning left a lasting mark on their lives – a sad picture of loss, survival, and the echoes of a crash that still lingered.

Monique, at the time, was a thousand miles away, her own world collapsing as she grappled

with Constance's terminal diagnosis. The news, when it finally arrived, was a

hammer blow, shattering the fragile peace she'd built.

‘"How could they?" she cried, her voice raw with anguish. "How could they steal his name, his memory, and parade it like a trophy?"

The echoing silence of the columbarium amplified her pain. Was it a cruel joke, a twisted

attempt to reclaim what they'd lost? Or a callous disregard for the gaping wound they'd reopened in her heart?

Nightfall painted the sky in shades of bruised purple as Louise found Monique, a huddled figure cradling the urn, her lips whispering Alexander's name like a mantra against the encroaching darkness.

"Mrs. Monique?" Louise's voice, a beacon of warmth in the chilling silence, finally broke through Monique's daze.

Louise knelt beside her and reached for her hand, her touch a silent balm on Monique's raw emotions.

"Mrs. Monique," Louise whispered again, her voice laced with concern, "what happened?”

"He...they named him Alex," Monique rasped.

Her red-rimmed eyes, burning with fury, glistened with tears as they rolled down her face, tracing new paths on her pale cheeks. "Clinton and Lydia... they named their son Alexander," she choked out, the words grating against her throat.

Louise's gasp was almost audible in the stillness. "No, he wouldn't!" she exclaimed, disbelief etched on her face.

Monique clutched the urn tighter, her tears falling like a summer rain. "He did," she whispered, each word a shard of glass in her voice. "They did. How can they do that? How can they steal his memory?"

Louise, her heart heavy with empathy, knelt beside her. "I don't know, Mrs. Monique," she admitted, her voice gentle. "But I know you have to find a way to deal with this. For yourself, for Sahara."

Monique clutched the urn tighter, her knuckles white. "I can't," she choked out. "Not like this. It's like they're spitting on his grave."

Louise squeezed her hand, her touch a silent promise. "I know it hurts. It's supposed to. But you're not alone. We'll figure this out, together."

Louise's arms enveloped around the younger woman, a silent refuge against the storm raging within. As Monique wept, her shoulders shaking with grief and anger, Louise held her close—a silent promise of support in the face of this unimaginable pain, just as she had over the past ten years.

~~~~

Louise brought her home and led her to her bedroom.

Monique stood in the room, looking lost, her emotions still in disarray.

‘’Mrs. Monique," Louise whispered, approaching her gently. "It's okay, you can let go of the urn now. Come, let's get you into bed."

Monique's fingers, cold and numb, relinquished their grip on the urn.

"I will run the bath for you," Louise continued, even if she knew she would get no response. She walked into the bathroom and ran the bath, fetching a

change of clothes for her.

Gently leading Monique to the bathroom, fearful of any impulsive actions, Louise stayed with her as she bathed, chatting about everything amd nothing, her chirpy voice a stark contrast to Monique's somber mood.

Later, Louise assisted her to bed, Monique's thin frame feeling fragile against the older woman's strength.

"I will go get you something warm to eat," Louise offered.

Monique shook her head.

"Even if you're not hungry, you have to at least put something on your stomach. You haven't eaten anything the whole day."

Monique turned her attention to the urn next to her deceased son's picture. Fresh tears filled her eyes.

As Louise turned to leave, Sahara slipped into the room, her eyes swollen with worry.

"Mama?" she whispered, climbing onto the bed and snuggling next to Monique

Monique wiped her tears, but alas, they still found their way to the surface. She forced a smile and opened her arms.

"Hey, honey."

She pulled Sahara close, their tears mingling as they sought solace in each other's embrace.

That night, Monique dreamt of Alexander. He was laughing, running through a field of sunflowers, his hair catching the golden light. In his hand, he held a small blue butterfly, its wings shimmering with an otherworldly glow. He turned to Monique, his eyes sparkling with life, and whispered, "Don't let my memory be forgotten."

When she woke up, the butterfly's shimmering image lingered in her mind.

Nighttime soon gave way to dawn. As dawn painted the sky with the faintest hint of hope, Louise opened the door and peeped on the mother and daughter pair. Sahara, her small face etched with worry, even in her sleep, nestled beside her mother.

"How is she?" Daniels, asked from the doorway.

Louise offered a reassuring smile. "She's asleep," she said, "but she'll be alright. She has to be."