Chapter 3

"Mrs. Sterling, the matriarch asked me to deliver this to you."

On my third day in the studio apartment, the doorbell rang.

Standing outside was Frank, the Sterling family's long-time chauffeur. He held a thermal food container in one hand and an embossed designer gift bag in the other.

Inside the container was fresh bone broth. Inside the gift bag was a black debit card.

Taped to the card was a note handwritten in Evelyn's elegant cursive: *Five hundred thousand dollars. Consider it a token of our family's appreciation. Maya is an easy child. You'll get used to caring for her in a few days.*

Five hundred thousand dollars.

*You'll get used to it.*

I handed both the container and the gift bag straight back to him. "Frank, please give her a message for me. Take the soup and the card back to where they came from."

Frank looked uncomfortable, but he didn't argue. He nodded politely and left.

Twenty minutes later, Evelyn called.

"Chloe, are you unhappy with the amount? Name your price—"

"Evelyn, this isn't a negotiation."

"Then what on earth do you want? Julian knows he made a mistake! What more do you expect him to do? Get down on his knees and beg?"

I walked out onto the small balcony with my phone. Down on the street below, a little girl was skipping rope, her pigtails bouncing with every jump.

"He knows he made a mistake? What mistake, exactly? Was his mistake knocking up another woman before our wedding? Was his mistake using me as a public shield for three years? Or was his only mistake letting me see that message in your group chat?"

Silence hung heavy over the line for several seconds.

When Evelyn spoke again, all pretense of maternal warmth had evaporated.

"Chloe, since you want to be difficult, let's stop playing games. You lived in luxury for three years because of Julian's status. If you want a divorce, fine. But Maya carries Sterling blood. She needs a mother. If you won't raise her, someone else gladly will. When Julian replaces you with another woman in that penthouse—don't come crying to me."

"So your ultimatum is: I either become your unpaid nanny, or I step aside so his mistress can move in?"

"I didn't say that, but that is the reality of your situation—"

"Evelyn," I cut her off cold. "Before I married your son, I was the youngest lead architect at the prestigious Foster Design Firm. After I married him, I resigned, turned down multi-million-dollar urban projects, and spent three years cooking gourmet meals that your son never even touched."

Evelyn drew in a sharp breath. She clearly hadn't expected me to speak with such blunt defiance.

"For three years, while your son wired thousands every month to Sienna, I spent my days testing recipes trying to figure out what flavors he liked. I rotated four kinds of marinades, three gourmet glazes, two specialty olive oils. He never took a single bite. And like an idiot, I blamed myself for not being a good enough cook."

My voice didn't waver. There were no tears, no trembling.

I had already cried all my tears outside City Hall three days ago. And none of those tears were for Julian—they were for the three years of my life I had thrown into an incinerator.

"All I want now is my own life back. Is that too much to ask?"

Evelyn didn't answer.

Right before hanging up, she sneered one final line: "You will regret this."

Identical to what Julian had said.

This family must have rehearsed their intimidation tactics from the exact same script.

That evening, a text came in from Julian. Not on SnapChat, but a direct SMS.

*Chloe, Maya asked me today why that nice lady doesn't come home anymore.*

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I typed four words: *None of my business.*

Before locking the screen, I added: *Stop using your child as a messenger. She's four years old, not your bargaining chip.*

He didn't reply.

But at seven the next morning, my doorbell buzzed persistently.

This time, there was no driver, no thermal soup, and no debit card.

It was Julian.

He held Maya in his arms. The little girl's head was slumped against his shoulder, her cheeks flushed bright crimson with a raging fever.

"She's at a hundred and three," Julian rasped, his eyes frantic. "I... I don't know how to bring it down."