Chapter Seven

TORRES ESTATE

The house stood as it always had, pristine and silent. The kind of silence that did nothing but judge others. This was Gregory’s parents’ home.

Isabelle stepped out of the car, a wicker basket balanced on her arm. Inside, the desserts she made still held its warmth, wrapped in foil. A quiet reminder that she was still trying to patch their shaky relationship.

She had called Gregory on the drive over.

“Are your parents home?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Gregory said lazily. “They’ve been wanting to see Ryan lately. They’re probably home by now.”

He didn’t ask why she called so she simply ended the call and kept driving.

Now, she stood at the doorstep, pressing the bell.

A moment later, the door opened and one of the maids led her into the lounge. Her mother in law, Marjorie Torres, dressed in cream linen with pearls at her throat, her posture as coldly perfect as ever sat on one of the sofas. Neither Ryan nor her father in law were anywhere in sight.

The older woman looked up at her once she stepped in. Then smiled, like a blade in velvet.

At once, Isabelle knew what was about to come. She’d never had a good relationship with her husband’s family; his mother, especially. They hated her from the first meeting. Something about how tacky it was for him to marry a performer.

Not an actress—a performer—quote unquote.

“Oh. Isabelle.” She smiled. Then, she gave a pause. “You didn’t call ahead.

Of course not. Why would she?

She also put on a fake smile of her own. She had no problem keeping up the status quo of fake smiles. They couldn’t act half as her anyway.

“I came to pick Ryan up.”

Marjorie tilted her head. “Oh? I thought Gregory told you… they’re out at the lake.”

Isabelle blinked. “He’s not with you?”

“Of course he is,” she said lightly. Then she added, like an afterthought but clearly, it wasn’t, “Tiffany’s around too. Hope you don’t mind?”

The words landed heavily in the air. Isabelle’s expression barely shifted but her knuckles tightened around the basket.

“Tiffany?” She responded, like she hadn’t met her in a while. Oh, she could act alright. “I didn’t know she still comes around.”

“Of course.” Her mother in law nodded, eyeing her like she didn’t expect her to still be so composed. “She’s the daughter of our very old friends and has been Gregory’s playmate since childhood. She’s always welcome in our home.”

But she—his wife—was not, of course.

Isabelle had always known Marjorie preferred Tiffany so she was not taken aback at the least and showed no change in her expression.

Instead, she muttered rather calmly. “Of course, I’m not concerned. Greg and I are already married. But, that doesn’t mean outsiders wouldn’t care, though. I mean, a single woman, hanging around a married man all day long wouldn’t be too good for her, no?”

She thought that would hit.

Marjorie loved appearances.

But to her surprise, she smiled. Like she knew something Isabelle didn’t.

“People talk. Let them. Everyone already knows where Gregory’s heart is.”

Isabelle eyes immediately shifted at that response. What did that mean?

Marjorie gave a soft, breathy laugh, not giving her time to dwell on it. “And Ryan, of course. You must know how attached he is to her. Children can… sense warmth.”

That gaze lingered pointedly on Isabelle a second too long.

“We just wanted a calm day with him. Tiffany’s such a help. It’s nice having a woman around who knows how to keep things… easy.”

Then, she smiled again, all faux sympathy and gentle cruelty. “It’s nothing personal, dear. I’m sure you’re trying in your own way.”

Isabelle’s nails dug into her palms.

She held her ground though and her voice cooled. “I’d like to take my son now.”

Marjorie chuckled.

“Take? Sweetheart… who are you to take the Torres grandson away from his family?”

She smiled even brighter. “That’s if he even wants to go. He seems perfectly happy with Tiffany.”

Isabelle’s fake smile frayed clean in an instant. She really couldn’t risk betting he’d choose her, especially after what he did at the kindergarten the other day. Her eyes tingled with tears that threatened to spill but she managed to hold them off well. She really could take anything but Ryan’s closeness with that woman pricked her heart.

But she tried not to lose to the other woman. She’d do anything but give Marjorie the satisfaction of messing with her.

She simply held the basket tighter until the heat from the foil began to sting through the cloth.

“Since he’s your grandson,” she said evenly, “I won’t stop him spending time with you.”

Her eyes never left Marjorie’s.

“But please send him home as soon as you’re done.” Then, she got up from the sofa the same way she sat, having never seen her son. “Well. Enjoy the day.”

“Oh,” Marjorie said sweetly, waving the maid to lead her to the door. “We will.”

Click.

The door shut.

Outside, Isabelle stood for a while.

The basket in her hand had gone cold.

She walked down the steps slowly, as if moving too quickly might shatter something fragile inside her.

She got into the car, drove just far enough to be out of sight, and parked a short distance from the house.

She simply sat there with an indescribable expression. After sometime, she reached for her phone. Then, she hesitated to do what she had wanted to do.

Something she never thought she’d do. She opened I*******m, fingers slightly trembling, and typed in the name: Tiffany Rowe.

It took three tries before she found the right account.

A grid of curated perfection showing the life of a rich girl wrapped in filters and sunlight appeared on the screen. Beaches. Brunches. Designer bags. But Isabelle’s eyes didn’t care for the obvious.

She quickly noticed the things she was looking for.

The shadow of a man reflected in a glass window.

A cropped wrist brushing her waist in another.

Familiar fingers on the wheel in a blurred car selfie.

Of course, who else would it be but her husband?

Then, a notification popped up: “TiffanyRowe just posted.”

Isabelle tapped it.

A photo filled the screen, sunlit and staged like a magazine spread.

Gregory. Ryan. His parents. Tiffany.

All seated together on a plaid picnic mat beside a glimmering blue lake.

Ryan was licking a popsicle, cheeks flushed from the sun. The sugary kind she’d never let him take.

Tiffany’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder with a wide smile.

Gregory was leaning in beside her, half-laughing.

The caption read:

“Nothing like a quiet day at the lake”

Isabelle stared.

Then slowly zoomed in.

Tiffany’s gold watch glinted in the sun. Gregory’s smile looked too easy. The kind of smile Isabelle hadn’t seen in months.

And Ryan… her baby… looked like he belonged.

Isabelle couldn’t breathe for a couple of seconds.

Then, she smiled.

The kind that came from knowing one had just lost something completely.

***

The house was quiet.

Ryan had eaten hours ago and gone to bed with a full stomach and a happy grin. Isabelle had made his favorite veggie-stuffed rice balls shaped like little bears. He didn’t care for candles or table settings, but still, she had laid out the table afterward, this time for someone else.

For her husband, Gregory.

She had curled her hair, applied the latest lipstick to add a touch of color to her lips, and chosen the dress he once said made her look soft.

That was years ago.

She wasn’t sure he remembered.

But she did.

9:48 p.m.

She checked the clock again.

Still nothing.

Not a call. Not a message.

Not even a: “On my way.”

The food had gone cold by the time the front door clicked open.

10:12 p.m.

She looked up quickly, hands smoothing her skirt with instinct.

Gregory stepped in.

Same way he always did, like nothing in the world could touch him.

Jacket tossed over one shoulder. Tie loose. That satisfied little smirk men wore when they thought they’d gotten away with something.

But it hit her before his voice did.

Perfume.

It was not hers.

Like another woman’s wrist had brushed his neck not long ago.

He stopped short when he noticed her standing there.

“You’re still up?”

As if it was a problem.

She didn’t answer that and asked instead:

“Where were you?”

He raised an eyebrow, casually tossing his keys onto the entryway console. “Meeting ran late. You didn’t have to wait.”

He walked straight past the table. He didn’t seem to notice the candles and the decorated meals she had cooked up just for him. Or maybe he did, but ignored it.

She followed quietly. Then, her voice came soft, but sharp.

“Was Tiffany at that meeting?”

He stopped at that and turned his head with a frown.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t say anything and simply reached into her bag, pulling out the photos she’d printed from Tiffany’s i***a and threw them on the console.

He barely glanced.

“So now you’re stalking me? Is that what this is?”

That tone—

The tone men used when they’d already decided you were the villain in your own home.

Isabelle’s hand fell to her side.

“So, you’re not denying it?”

He scoffed.

“Denying what? There’s nothing going on.”

Her voice rose.

“Nothing? And yet you’re in so many of her pictures at different places and different times. Am I blind?”

“We’re friends, that’s all.” He tried to dismiss her.

“And the perfume?” Isabelle retorted. “The way you walked in here on our anniversary, reeking of another woman?”

He paused, as if realizing the date but only sighed.

“Isabelle, you’re being paranoid. Tiffany and I have known each other since childhood. What, now I can’t see my friends? Don’t be controlling.”

Isabelle gave a dry chuckle.

​

“Stop trying to gaslight me.”

She steadied herself, then pointed at the picture of Ryan, Tiffany, and his family at the lake.

“What of this? You think this is normal?”

He finally snapped.

“You’re stalking your own son now?”

He pulled at his tie, eyes narrowed. “You’ve lost it.”

“I’ve lost it?” Isabelle exclaimed.

“Yes!” he shouted. “You’ve changed! You suspect everything and everyone around you. Acting like everyone’s out to get you.”

“No, Gregory.” Her voice was low. “We’ve changed.”

She looked at him like a stranger.

“You lie. I pretend it’s fine.

You disappear. I make excuses.

You parade her around our son, and I’m supposed to smile like a fool.”

His jaw clenched.

“Because she treats him like a person! With you, it’s always rules, pills, sugar levels, bedtime. You treat him like a… a project.”

He stepped forward, towering now.

“Face it. You’re not a mother. You’re a dictator in lipstick.”

Isabelle blinked.

For a moment, the sting wasn’t even from his words — but from how wrong he was.

She didn’t treat Ryan like a checklist.

She remembered what almost killed him. He didn’t.

But, she quickly recovered and heaved.

“And you? You’re better?” she asked coldly, pointing at the popsicle in Ryan’s hand in the photo. “You think that’s helping him? Do you even remember what happened the last time?”

​

“It’s just one popsicle! One! Let the kid live a little.”

Isabelle’s breath hitched. Her voice went low.

“You weren’t there. Ryan… he nearly died. If you were, you wouldn’t say that so casually.”

He looked away at that.

But not out of guilt.

Out of boredom.

“I swear,” he muttered, “this again.”

Then he sneered.

“What’s this?” he nodded toward the table. “Some desperate attempt at romance? You laid tables even though you wanted to throw accusations at me.”

She didn’t speak at that and stared at him pointedly. He seemed to realize that was too harsh and gave a sigh, waving his hand. “I forgot, okay? It’s not that deep.”

She didn’t reply and just continued to stare fixatedly.

Her attitude seemed to annoy him further and he simply reached for his jacket seemingly giving up the nice act and sneered,

“If you put half this effort into being a wife instead of a detective, maybe I wouldn’t need peace from someone else.”

And then he walked out.

Just like that.

Isabelle didn’t move at first. But after sometime, she seemed to recover hit wits and turned to the table, blowing out the candles one by one..

Then, she carried the food into the cooler. She wasn’t about to waste food because of him

Just then, her phone buzzed with a message from Camille:

“Can you come to the studio this week? Got something you’ll want to see.”

Isabelle stared at the screen for a minute.

Then, she typed:

“I’ll be there.”