“Frank,” she said, her tone cold and detached, “eat the whole thing, and I’ll make sure they listen to what you have to say.”
The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers.
“Yeah, eat it all!” someone shouted mockingly.
I stared at the cake, my chest tightening.
Then, I looked up at Margot, my voice barely more than a whisper. “You know I’m allergic to mangoes.”
Her eyes met mine, but they were empty—void of any emotion, any compassion.
“And?” she said with a shrug. “If you can’t eat it, I’ll have someone feed it to you.”
Her words hit me like a blow to the chest. My throat tightened, and I struggled to breathe as despair settled over me like a suffocating fog. She had once been my salvation, the one who lifted me out of darkness, but now… now, she was the one dragging me deeper into it.
“I told you—I’m allergic to mangoes!” I repeated, my voice cracking. Every word felt like a plea, but I knew it would fall on deaf ears.
Margot’s expression twisted in frustration, and she snapped, “So what? If you won’t eat it yourself, I’ll make sure someone does it for you.”