Chapter 3

Vanessa.

I had never heard anyone mention that name before, but judging by the way she walked through that door, it wasn't her first time here.

She knew the security code. She knew the layout of the living room. She knew I was supposed to "move out this week."

Who gave her all that information?

Martha, our housekeeper, had worked here for four years.

She came to us the year I got pregnant.

Martha was a great cook, worked efficiently, was always polite to me, and was dedicated to my son.

For a long time, I thought I was incredibly lucky to find such a wonderful person on my first try.

Later, Martha told me her daughter was divorced and had no one to watch her little girl. She asked if she could occasionally bring her granddaughter over.

I agreed. I thought it would be nice for Leo to have a playmate.

So, the little girl, Lily, started showing up at our house, coming two or three times a week, playing with my son and eating the baby food Martha prepared.

But then, Martha claimed her ex-son-in-law was causing trouble and she was afraid it would put Lily in danger, so she didn't dare bring her over anymore.

I asked her what she would do. Martha said it was fine; she had hired a private tutor, and Lily would just go to the tutor's house on weekends.

I didn't think much of it. I even asked if the tutor was expensive and if she needed financial help. Martha insisted it was very cheap and she could afford it.

Now I knew the truth. That tutor was Clara—the elite nanny I was paying a hundred thousand dollars a year.

Where did Martha's daughter live after her divorce? Where did Clara have to go to teach her?

The answer was simple: in a house bought by Ethan.

Clara worked at my house every weekday from 3 PM to 9 PM. Her job was to look after my son, do early childhood development, and build his routines. On weekends, she rested—or rather, she went to tutor Martha's granddaughter, Lily.

And who was Martha? She was the housekeeper Ethan hired to look after his other child's grandmother.

What a massive, elaborate game they had been playing.

My son fell asleep in my arms, his little face pressed against my chest, his breath warm.

I gently laid him back into his crib, tucked him in, and sat by the bed in a daze.

My phone buzzed.

It was a message from Clara on SnapChat: "Mrs. Nora, Mr. Ethan told me I don't need to come to work starting tomorrow. Did I do something wrong?"

I stared at the message, my finger hovering over the screen for a long time.

Clara was twenty-four, a child development major, holding top-tier certificates. She was articulate, neat, and it had taken three rounds of interviews to hire her.

I had interviewed her myself, asking question after question, watching her reactions, her patience, and how she interacted with children.

I had thought she was highly professional.

She was young; she probably didn't initiate this.

But she didn't refuse it either.

She knew I was paying her a hundred thousand dollars, and she knew exactly whose child that little girl was. She chose to take money from both sides, keeping both in the dark.

I typed out a line, then deleted it. After a few tries, I simply replied: "Mr. Ethan will communicate the details with you."

After sending it, I placed the phone face down on the nightstand.

The study door downstairs was still closed.

I went downstairs. My glass was empty, so I went to the kitchen for water. As I passed the housekeeper's room, the door was shut and the lights were off. Martha should have been asleep.

Wait—the housekeeper's room was right next to the stairs. The door was closed, but a sliver of light leaked from the bottom.

I walked over. Just as I was about to knock, I heard hushed voices from inside.

"Be good, Lily. Grandma will come back tomorrow... Yes, Mommy is here too... Daddy said he'll take you to Disneyland next week... Really, Daddy said so... Okay, Grandma loves Lily the most. Go to sleep now, sweetheart."

I stood outside the door, my hand frozen in mid-air. I didn't knock.

Martha was FaceTiming her granddaughter.

In this house, she called me Mrs. Nora to my face, but behind my back, she referred to that little girl's mother as "my baby girl."

I turned back to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank it in one gulp.

The sound of the glass hitting the counter was a bit loud, but no one heard.

I returned to the living room, picked up the divorce agreement from the coffee table, and flipped to the last page.

Ethan had already signed it. His signature was bold and sweeping, carrying a condescending certainty.

He was sure I would sign it.

He believed I had no choice.

He thought a housewife who had been out of the workforce for six years stood absolutely no chance against his team of elite lawyers. All I could do was sign.

I closed the agreement and put it back where it was.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn't Clara. It was someone tagging me in my college SnapChat group.