Chapter 2

He was holding a one-and-a-half-year-old girl, kissing her forehead, calling her Lily.

He had his arm wrapped around a woman wearing a cashmere lounge set, calling her his wife.

That woman was Victoria.

On her finger sparkled a diamond ring. The main stone was at least three carats, reflecting brilliant light under the crystal chandelier.

On her feet were Chanel slides, the logo glaringly obvious.

In the corner of the living room sat at least six orange Hermès shopping bags, not yet unpacked.

The couch was genuine Italian leather, the TV was a massive flush-mount screen, and the dining table was set with high-end bone china.

Meanwhile, I was wearing a pair of cheap fleece slippers. The soles were completely worn down, sliding precariously on the polished marble floor.

I stood in that kitchen for forty minutes.

I finished cooking the last course, a soup, and carried it out.

During those forty minutes, a thousand excuses ran through my head. Maybe she was his sister? But he said his parents were dead and he had no siblings.

Maybe she was his ex-wife? But he said he had never been married.

Maybe the child wasn't his? But the little girl's eyes and nose were identical to his. They had the exact same brow, the same double eyelids, and even the same dimple when they smiled.

For forty minutes, I unraveled, rebuilt, and examined three years of memories, like pulling apart a poorly knitted sweater. I pulled at the threads until I realized the entire thing was rotten from the start.

Victoria took the soup bowl, her smile incredibly sweet.

"Thank you so much. It smells amazing." She took a sip and turned to Austin.

"Babe, she cooks even better than our regular private chef. Maybe we should just hire her from now on?"

She stuffed an envelope of cash into my apron pocket, a warm gesture as if she were treating a younger sister. Then she grabbed a handful of imported organic cherries—the expensive kind that cost twenty bucks a pound—and forced them into my hands.

"Take them, take them. It’s late, don't be polite."

Austin, sitting across the table, turned pale the moment he saw me.

I looked at him and smiled slightly.

"Thank you. I hope your family has a wonderful life."

I emphasized the word "family" heavily, so hard that I almost bit through my tongue.

His fork clattered.

The silver fork hit the bone china plate with a sharp ring, splashing gravy onto the pristine white tablecloth, leaving a dark, ugly stain.

Victoria turned to look at him. "What’s wrong, babe?"

"Nothing, my hand slipped." He bent down to pick up the fork. In that split second, his eyes finally dared to dart toward me. His gaze was filled with terror, panic, and a silent plea.

"Please don't say anything."

I understood his look.

He was begging me not to ruin his perfect home.

But what about "my" home?