Chapter 34: Bitter Medicine
**Mia’s POV**
The morning light filtered through the bay windows of my bedroom, casting rainbow prisms across the
polished wood of my vanity. I stared at the small army of pill bottles that had appeared there sometime during
the night, arranged in neat, clinical rows. Blues, whites, pale pinks, and soft yellows – a rainbow arsenal of
chemical intervention.
My fingers traced the edge of the nearest bottle. The label bore some long, unpronounceable name, followed by
precise instructions in stark black text. Behind it stood at least a dozen more, each with its own schedule, its
own promises of healing. 2
This must have emptied an entire pharmacy.
Mrs. Chen had arranged my morning pills in a small crystal dish – the kind usually reserved for expensive
chocolates or delicate petit fours.
A knock at the door startled me from my reverie. Three sharp raps – precise, measured. I glanced at the elegant
Cartier clock on my
now, ensconced intstand. 9:47 AM. Too early for Kyle to be home. He should be at K.T. Enterprises by
now, ensconced in his corner office with its panoramic views of the city he practically owned. Directing.
Controlling. Manipulating the fates of countless employees with the same detached efficiency he applied to everything in his life.
Including me.
“Come in,” I called, expecting Mrs. Chen with her usual morning tea.
The door opened, and my heart stuttered. Kyle stood in the doorway, immaculate as always in a charcoal Tom
Ford suit. His storm–grey eyes swept the room, taking in the pill bottles, the untouched crystal dish, the way I
still wore my silk robe despite the late morning hour.
“You haven’t taken your medication.” It wasn’t a question. His voice held that familiar note of controlled
authority that always made me feel like a wayward child.
“I was just about to.” The lie felt small in the space between us.
He moved into the room with that fluid grace that had always fascinated me. Even now, after everything, my eyes couldn’t help but track his movements. He picked up one of the bottles, reading the label with the same intensity he usually reserved for important contracts.
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“Sertraline, 50 milligrams. To be taken each morning with food.” He set it down and reached for another. “Iron supplement, twice daily. Vitamin D complex, one tablet in the morning.” His fingers moved to the crystal dish. “And these the anti–anxiety medication should be taken now. The others can wait until after you’ve eaten.”
–
The precise knowledge of my prescribed routine sent an unexpected pang through my chest. When had he learned all this? Had he memorized each medication, each dosage, each instruction? The thought of Kyle Branson, who could barely remember my birthday, studying pill bottles and medical instructions made something twist painfully in my stomach.
“I can manage my own medication,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “You don’t need to supervise me like a child.”
He stilled, his hand hovering over the crystal dish. “John says adherence to the medication schedule is crucial for recovery.”
“I know what John says.” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm morning sun. “You don’t have to play nursemaid, Kyle. Don’t you have a company to run?”
His jaw tightened – that tiny tell I’d learned to recognize over three years of marriage. “The company can wait.”
A harsh laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Since when?”
He ignored the jab, picking up the glass of water Mrs. Chen had left on my vanity. “Take them, Mia.”
“Why are you doing this?” The question burst out, sharper than I intended. “Is this part of your penance? Your way of assuaging your guilt?”
“This isn’t about guilt.” He held out the glass and the crystal dish, his expression unreadable. “This is about your health.”
“My health.” The words tasted bitter.
He stopped, took a measured breath. “Just take the medication, Mia. Please.”
The ‘please‘ caught me off guard. Kyle Branson didn’t say please. He commanded. He directed. He expected
obedience.
With hands that only slightly trembled, I took the pills and water. His eyes tracked each movement as I swallowed them one by one, like a good little patient following doctor’s orders.
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“Thank you.” The words came out small, automatic. A conditioned response to his charity.
He nodded, but didn’t move toward the door. Instead, he straightened his already perfect tie – a nervous gesture I’d rarely seen from him. “There’s something else.”
I set the water glass down carefully, suddenly wary. “Oh?”
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“The Warren Group is planning a major development. Mixed–use, but primarily focused on sustainable luxury residences.” His voice took on that smooth, professional tone he used in business meetings. “They’re looking for innovative design proposals. Something that pushes boundaries while maintaining elegance.”
My fingers clenched around the crystal dish. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because you’re talented.” He said it simply, as if stating an obvious fact. “Your work on the Havers project
proved that. This could be an opportunity to-”
“Stop.” The word came out sharp enough to make him blink. “Just… stop.”
“Mia-”
“Don’t.” I stood, needing the illusion of equal footing. “Don’t try to manage my career like you manage
everything else in my life.”
His expression hardened slightly. “I’m trying to help.”
–
“No, you’re trying to control.” The words spilled out, carrying months – years of suppressed frustration. “You think throwing opportunities at me will fix everything? Make up for-“My voice caught. “For everything that happened?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” I moved to the window, needing space between us. The city sprawled below, going about its morning
routine, unaware of the drama unfolding in this too–quiet room. “This is my work, Kyle. My career. The one
thing in my life that isn’t tied to you or your money or your influence.”
“The Warren Group is one of the most prestigious—”
“I don’t care if they’re the most prestigious developers in the world.” I turned back to face him. “This is my business. Don’t get to interfere just because you’re feeling guilty or charitable or whatever this is.”
Something flickered in his eyes – hurt? Anger? But his face remained impassive. “I see.”
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“Do you?” The morning sun caught his profile, highlighting the sharp planes of his face. Even now, he was beautiful. Even now, my treacherous heart skipped at the sight of him. “Because I don’t think you do, Kyle. I
don’t think you see me at all.”
He stood perfectly still, only the slight tension in his shoulders betraying any emotion. Then, with mechanical precision, he straightened his suit jacket.
“Take your evening medication at seven,” he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “Mrs. Chen will remind
you.”
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with quiet finality. The click of the latch echoed in the sudden silence, punctuated only by the steady tick of the Cartier clock.
I sank back onto the vanity chair, surrounded by pills and promises and good intentions that felt like chains. The morning sun continued to paint rainbow prisms across the wood, turning each bottle into a small kaleidoscope of color.
Beautiful.
Empty.
Just like everything else in this gilded cage of a marriage.
.
