Chapter 2

On the way back to the studio, memory kept surging up.

The last time we drove to the neighboring city to meet an important client, it was a three-hour trip.

He put Rose in the passenger seat and made me squeeze into the back.

He said,

"Rosie gets carsick, she'll be more comfortable up front. You've got a strong constitution, just make do."

That day I'd started my period, and the cramps were bad enough to break me out in a cold sweat.

I stayed curled up in the back seat, shivering the whole way, and he never once asked how I was.

When we arrived, he went around to the passenger side first and opened Rose's door.

Fussed over her, asked if she felt all right.

Then he turned, saw how pale I was, and said, impatient,

"Why are you so delicate? If I'd known, I wouldn't have bothered bringing you."

Last year the whole studio went to a training retreat.

He drove Rose out a day early.

Said they needed to set up the venue and coordinate with the hotel.

The rest of us employees were left to take the bus.

I'd worked until two in the morning the night before.

The next day I dragged my suitcase to catch the bus with no time to eat, and got carsick and threw up the whole way.

By the time I reached the training hotel, there was still no sign of him or Rose.

Then Rose's post showed up in my feed.

A grid of nine photos.

Half were ocean views, half were shots of her and Francis together.

Francis standing beside her, smiling, handing her an ice cream, with the caption:

"A day scouting spots with Francis~"

Underneath, all comments from studio coworkers:

"So cute together!"

"When's it official?"

Francis replied with a smiley face and didn't explain.

That night, alone in my hotel room, running a fever, I called him.

He picked up. The background was loud, all crashing waves and laughter.

"Rosie and I are having dinner with the client. Drink lots of hot water, and if it's really bad, just order yourself some delivery."

He hung up fast.

I sat there in the dark room all night, holding a phone that was burning hot in my hand.

I told myself he was just driven, that he was doing it for our future.

After all, when we first opened the studio, we'd pooled the startup money together.

I brought the skills, he brought the resources.

We'd agreed to build something out of nothing, to meet each other at the top someday.

Those words, I believed them for three whole years.

Back at the studio, I'd barely sat down when accounting sent over this month's commission breakdown for the staff.

I opened it.

The two-hundred-thousand project commission that should have gone to me was there, the note in the memo column reading "employee bonus."

But the name on the payment was Rose's.

My head buzzed. I took the breakdown and went to find Francis.

He was in his office, peeling an orange for Rose.

When he saw me come in, he asked, offhand,

"What's wrong?"

I slapped my phone down on his desk.

"My commission. Why was it paid to her?"

Rose flinched so hard the orange segment dropped to the floor.

Francis's face went dark at once.

"What are you doing? You scared her."

He picked up the fallen segment, tossed it in the trash, and said it as flatly as if he were talking about the weather,

"Oh, that. I had accounting send the money to Rosie. She just graduated, and cramming onto the subway to and from work is a hassle, so I'm buying her a car."

"That's my commission."

I stared into his eyes, my voice shaking.

"I grinded for three months, went through more than a dozen versions of that design, worked myself to the bone for that money. Who gave you the right to just hand it to her?"

Francis frowned, his tone full of reproach.

"Yours, mine, what's the difference? Isn't all the studio's money ours?"

"Rosie's just a girl, all alone out here with no one to lean on. What's wrong with me looking after her a little more?"

"Besides, what do you need that much money for? Once we're married, isn't everything mine yours anyway?"

"Once we're married" again.

All at once I didn't have the strength to argue.

Just then, Rose's phone rang.

She glanced at it, her face flustered, and silenced it.

Francis looked up at her.

"Who is it? Why aren't you answering?"

Rose bit her lip and said, quietly,

"It's my friend... she's asking if I won the bet with you. You know... the one about whether Abby would get mad."

The air went silent in an instant.

I turned to look at Francis.

Something unnatural flickered across his face, and then he put on a stern act and snapped at her,

"What are you talking about? Don't go making jokes at other people's expense."

"No, Francis, that's not it."

Rose acted like she hadn't caught the look in his eyes, explaining in a panic,

"Did you forget? Last week you said Abby definitely wouldn't throw a fit, and you bet me that Patek Philippe watch..."