Margaret sat in the dimly lit living room of her sprawling home, her trembling hands clutching a tissue that had long since given up its purpose.
Her normally pristine makeup was streaked down her cheeks, the result of an afternoon spent in tears.
The humiliation she had endured at Alex's house replayed in her mind, each moment sharpening her anguish into anger.
The look on Emma's face when she saw her. The way she had begged and pleaded with both Alex and Emma just so they could help her son.
The way Alex had said nothing and the way Emma had barely stood there and let Claire talk to her the way she did while she made a fool of herself.
How dare they? How dare Claire speak to me like that? Like I'm an outsider when Alex and Emma are the outsiders?
The memory of Claire standing up for Emma, her voice cold and unyielding as she ordered the butler to throw Margaret out, was a knife twisting in her chest.