Chapter 4

The next morning I changed into house clothes and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, the housekeeper and the two aunties were getting breakfast ready.

When she saw me come in, the bowl in the housekeeper's hands nearly hit the floor.

All three of them took a step back at once.

“Ma'am… will you be having breakfast? It'll be ready in a moment.”

Her voice shook, and without thinking she shifted her body to block the knife rack on the counter.

I didn't look at them.

I pushed up my sleeves, washed my hands, and opened the refrigerator.

“I'll cook.”

The kitchen went silent in an instant.

The two aunties pressed their backs to the wall, not daring to breathe.

I didn't bother explaining.

I filled the steamer with water, beat the eggs, and mixed up a bowl of soft egg scramble.

In my past life, after I died, I drifted in the air.

I watched Tristram get up before dawn every day to cook porridge for our daughter.

The little girl would never eat it.

Not because she didn't want to.

Because she was afraid that if she ate, I'd make her kneel again.

Back then she still didn't know her mother was already dead.

Seven o'clock.

Faint, faint footsteps came from the stairs.

Our daughter was in a cotton nightgown, clutching that little wooden rabbit tight against her chest.

She edged down along the wall, her steps so light it was as if she was afraid of disturbing something.

When she saw me standing by the table, she froze completely.

Then she shrank back.

One step.

Two steps.

Her knees were trembling.

I didn't go over to her.

I knew that, to her, the me of now was the most terrifying nightmare.

Any move toward her would break her.

I set the egg scramble at her usual spot.

I laid out the spoon.

“Agnes, breakfast is here.”

She didn't move.

The housekeeper hurried over and gently steadied her onto the bottom step of the staircase.

That was when Tristram came down.

His tie was undone, hanging loose at his collar.

The dark shadows under his eyes said he hadn't slept all night.

He saw the egg scramble on the table and me standing beside it, and his steps stalled.

Then he strode over and scooped Agnes up, shielding her behind him.

He stared at that bowl of egg scramble.

Like he was checking whether there was broken glass in it.

“Aria, if you've got a problem, take it out on me.”

I didn't explain.

I walked up to him.

They both drew back half a step.

I reached out and caught the loose tie at his collar.

His whole body went rigid.

I rose onto my toes.

Quietly, I tied it into a knot.

My fingers brushed his collar, touching warm skin and a pulse that had picked up just a little.

Seven years ago, on our wedding day, I had tied his tie too.

In the seven years after, I only ever got close to him to hit him or curse at him.

“Tristram.”

I said, still straightening the tie,

“I told you, I'm not divorcing you. As for the Hensons, I'll handle them myself tonight.”

“It's fine if you don't believe me. Tonight you just stand to the side and watch.”

I let go and stepped back.

I turned to look at the little girl huddled behind him.

“Agnes, Mommy put shrimp in the egg scramble.”

“Eat if you're hungry, don't if you're not. Nobody can force you.”

With that I turned and headed for the backyard.

At the floor-to-ceiling window I couldn't help glancing back.

Tristram was still standing where he'd been, unmoving.

He lifted a hand and touched the neat knot at his throat, his fingers pausing there for a few seconds.

And our daughter poked half her head out from behind his leg.

She stared at that bowl of egg scramble on the table for a long time.

Then she took a step.

She climbed onto the chair and picked up the little spoon.

She scooped up a mouthful.

She paused, then scooped up a second.

I turned away, leaned my back against the glass door, and clamped a hand hard over my mouth.

The tears struck the back of my hand.

That afternoon.

I had the housekeeper bring the car around and went to the most upscale mall in New York.

I picked out a wine-red fitted gown.

I switched my earrings for ruby ones.

In my past life, old Mr. Henson was always saying the matriarch of the Stephens household had to be understated and demure.

I obeyed for seven years.

Seven years of black, white, and gray.

I lived myself into an obedient dog the Hensons kept.

Five thirty in the afternoon.

Tristram's car stopped at the door of the workshop.

This was the rule the Hensons had set down over the past seven years.

Every family dinner, Tristram had to pick me up and drop me off himself.

That looking-down-on-you posture was exactly what the Hensons wanted.

I lifted my skirt and stepped out.

Tristram was leaning against the car, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

When he saw me, his movement stopped.

His gaze slid from my face down to the hem of my dress, then away again.

He pulled the car door open. “Get in.”

The car was very quiet.

Ten minutes in, he opened the armrest compartment, took out a document, and held it out to me.

“The property transfer deed for the east-side commercial complex. I've signed it.”

He looked out the window, the line of his profile cold and hard.

“The Hensons have always wanted this.”

“Take it and settle your account.”

He stopped for two seconds.

“Just don't touch Agnes again. Whatever the Stephens family has, however much they want, I'll give it.”

I stared at the document.

Worth billions, and he'd hand it over just like that.

Not because he didn't care.

Because, next to all of it, what he feared more was me hurting our daughter again.

That was exactly how it went in my past life.

Step by step he retreated, step by step he gave way, until he'd turned himself into a man with nothing left.

I reached out and simply took hold of the hand holding the document.

It was cold.

Tristram's head snapped around to look at me.

I didn't let go.

“Tristram, I'm not going to take your things and feed them to those Henson dogs anymore.”

“Tonight you don't have to do anything.”

“Just watch me.”