The door clicked softly behind us, and the woman gave a small gesture with her fingers. A simple wave, barely noticeable, but it was enough to make the maid leave. She didn't have much around her – simple chair, tidy table, faint scent of lavender – but her composure carried authority. Respect followed her like a shadow.
At some point, I caught myself noticing the way she never smiled. Not once. And I realized I was a little afraid of that. Not her presence alone, but what it implied: control, judgment, the kind of quiet power that didn't need words to dominate a room.
"Tell me about you," she said finally, her voice soft but commanding.
I straightened my back. "I'm Esmeralda Augustine," I began. "I work with the Boylen Kenns company as their secretary." I hesitated briefly, then filled in what seemed safe, normal. Thinking I'd impress her at least with my occupation, because working with the Boylen Kenns company isn't just measured based on qualifications, but connections too. At least she can tell for sure I'm not like the random girls she'd seen.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Her gaze pinned me like I was the only thing in the room. "Is that all?" No smile. Not a flicker. My chest tightened.
Maybe Ethan had told her about my health crisis. Maybe he hadn't. Either way, I wasn't going to answer that. Not here. Not now.
"Is that all, Miss Esmeralda Augustine?" she asked again, cutting short my thoughts.
"Yes, ma'am," I said, keeping my voice steady.
Her eyes didn't soften. Not yet. "Good," she said. And then, leaning slightly forward, she asked: "What makes you think you're the one for my son?"
That question lingered in the air, sharp and heavy. I hadn't come here for an interview, yet here it was. A test. Maybe to measure my mood, my level of intelligence, my wit, my composure. I wouldn't disappoint.
I leaned slightly forward, meeting her gaze evenly. "We understand each other," I said. "We know what we want, how we think, what we're capable of."
She let that hang in the air, her face unreadable. I studied her silently, noting the faint crease at the corner of her eyes, the way her fingers drummed lightly on the armrest. Every small movement, deliberate. She was measuring me. Calculating. Waiting for something I wasn't ready to show.
"Have you faced challenges in your life that might… affect your future?" she asked next, voice soft, almost gentle. Her eyes didn't leave mine, but the question cut deeper than any sharp glance.
I hesitated, just for a heartbeat. My hands twitched slightly on my lap. This was it. She was testing me, poking at my boundaries. I could lie. Many would. But the truth, even veiled, always has a way of showing.
"Challenges?" I repeated slowly. "Yes. Everyone has them. Some more than others."
Her gaze sharpened, piercing. "Miss Augustine," she said, leaning back slightly. "Are you hiding something from me?"
I almost laughed at the audacity, but I didn't. Instead, I kept my posture, my face calm. "I don't hide things," I said. "I just choose what to share and when."
She tilted her head. "Interesting," she said, her tone unreadable. "So, let me ask you, have you ever had a health issue serious enough that it… interfered with your life?"
The question landed like a weight in the room. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. She was fishing. Calculating. Waiting to see if I'd fold, if I'd panic, if I'd give her a weakness to use.
I kept my hands still on my lap. "Health issues? Everyone has them," I said lightly, though my voice betrayed just a hint of tension.
She leaned closer, letting her eyes soften just a fraction. "I'm not asking casually, Miss Augustine. I'm asking because I need to know the woman my son is with. If you cannot be honest with me now… I fear what else you might hide."
I swallowed. The room seemed to shrink. My fingers itched to twitch, to fidget, but I didn't. I squared my shoulders and met her gaze evenly.
She paused, waiting. And then, just enough for me to realize what she was doing, she said, "You've been careful, haven't you? Careful to hide it, to not let anyone know, to avoid pity… or judgment."
My pulse quickened. She knew. Somehow, she had figured it out. Or maybe she had noticed the small things; the pale tone of my fingers sometimes, the tiredness in my eyes, the way I sometimes catch my breath too fast. Was she being sympathetic or just being her usual self?
"Yes," I said quietly, my voice steady even as my heart raced. "I've been careful."
Her eyes softened slightly, the first sign of emotion I'd seen. "Because," she said, "life hasn't been kind to you, has it?"
I shook my head slightly, unwilling to give her more than that. I had survived plenty. And I had a choice now: let her see the truth, or let her remain in the dark.
"You're sickle cell," she said finally, almost whispering. Not a question. A statement.
I froze. Not from fear, but from relief that she had seen it, known it without me having to tell her. It was strange, how it felt like a weight lifting. Finally, someone recognized me completely – not just the confident front, the words I chose, or the rehearsed smile.
She studied me for a long moment. Then, finally, she leaned back, letting her composure return, the unreadable authority settling over her again. "I see," she said quietly.
The silence hung heavy between us. And for the first time since I walked in, I felt… seen.
The woman's voice cut through the room like ice. "Do sickle cell patients have a place in marriage in this generation?"
Her words hit me harder than any blow. My chest tightened. My hands trembled slightly on my lap. This wasn't just curiosity. This was judgment, interrogation, testing, pushing me to a corner.
Beyond all reasonable doubt, she was testing me. Teasing my anger. My pride. My patience. Her words didn't hurt more than the shadow of disappointment I saw in Ethan's eyes. He didn't say anything, didn't stand up for me. And yet, I knew he could do nothing much. I had seen this in him before, this quiet resignation, the little he could do against the force of her presence.
I didn't come this far to give up, I reminded myself.
Her gaze was fixed steadily on me. Sharp, unrelenting, demanding. I was shaking, mind racing, but I had nothing to say. Words failed me for the first time in years.
Had Ethan betrayed me? Had he told her about my health issues? I thought about it. Two possibilities spilled through my mind. One: he had told her, innocently, as sons sometimes do. Two: he had warned her, but nothing could be done to soften her. Either way, the truth was out. And part of me burned with a mix of frustration, anger, and relief. I would have told her myself – but not like this.
"Miss Augustine," she said slowly, each syllable deliberate. "You never told me you're… speaking impaired."
Her words lingered, hanging in the air. She didn't even glance at Ethan as she said it. Her eyes stayed fixed on me, reading me, waiting.
I swallowed. My throat was tight. Then, almost instinctively, "I asked a simple, controlled question, do they have a place in marriages?" She said.
For a moment, she blinked. Slightly. Just enough to break the tension ever so slightly. Then her gaze returned, unwavering.
"Yes… sure, ma," I replied softly, trying to keep my voice steady, praying inwardly that this confrontation would end soon, that I could leave this room without losing myself completely.
But it wasn't as easy as I thought. It never is with her.
She leaned back slightly, steepling her fingers, eyes narrowing. "Do you think you're ready for that? To carry that burden openly… with a man, with family, with life?"
I clenched my hands in my lap. My mind raced. My heart pounded. This wasn't just a question about sickness. This was about courage, about patience, about whether I could face judgment and expectation and still stand tall.
"I… I believe I am," I said quietly, my voice trembling slightly, but steady enough. "I can handle it. And I… I don't expect anyone to pity me. That's not what I want. Just… understanding."
Her gaze softened for just a fraction. Just enough to unsettle me further.
"Good," she said finally. "Because this… this isn't something anyone should face lightly. Not your partner. Not the family. Not society. You'll need… resilience."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Resilience. I had that. I always had that.
And then, after everything, after the probing, the judgment, the relentless scrutiny, it was over. She stood. I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from my shoulders, though my heart still thumped in my chest.
"Thank you for coming, Miss Augustine," she said, turning to leave. Her heels clicked sharply on the polished floor. I watched her go, every step deliberate, controlled, distant.
And then, just before she disappeared behind the doorway, she looked back at me. Her eyes fixed mine for the briefest moment, and she said,
"I'll get back to you."
The words lingered long after she left. Cold. Suspenseful. Threatening. Not angry. Not approving. Just… waiting.
Ethan didn't say anything. He stayed silent, offering a small, awkward smile that didn't reach his eyes. I exhaled slowly, finally allowing myself to breathe, but the weight of her words pressed against my
chest.
I had survived the meeting, barely. But something told me this wasn't the end. Not by a long shot.