Chapter 4

Iris's POV

By the time I got home, it was evening. The house was empty and eerily silent.

I walked in slowly, scanning the living room, seeing this place I'd lived in for ten years through an outsider's eyes for the first time. I laughed bitterly at myself---ten years as a nanny and I'd never even realized it.

Lucien didn't like having strangers around and refused to hire help, so I'd always been the one keeping everything spotless.

But today, the woman beside him had been wearing a flashy red dress dripping with jewelry, her hands smooth and delicate---hands that had clearly never touched a mop.

I'd maintained this home like a model showroom, day after day, year after year. Now I realized I'd been the only fool investing in it.

I looked up at the second floor. At the end of the hallway, the study door stood closed.

That was where Lucien handled his work---a room I'd barely entered in ten years. He always said it contained confidential company documents I shouldn't touch. I'd respected his boundaries. I didn't even clean it unless he was present.

But tonight, standing before the door, I didn't hesitate. I gripped the handle and pushed it open.

It was unlocked.

The desk drawers were neatly organized. The first held research materials. The second, contracts. When I pulled open the third, my fingers froze.

Inside lay several dark velvet boxes.

The kind used by high-end jewelers. I lifted one out, feeling the fine velvet beneath my fingertips. I slowly opened the lid, and the moment the light hit the stones, the brilliance nearly stung my eyes.

A complete set of ruby jewelry lay nestled in dark velvet---necklace, earrings, bracelet, and ring.

On the night of my twenty-eighth birthday, Lucien had come home late, claiming he'd been working overtime. He handed me a gift box, and I'd opened it with quiet hope---only to find a plain cotton apron, cream-colored with a small floral print.

Now, standing under the study lamp, looking at this jewelry worth a fortune, the version of me who'd been grateful for that apron felt like a punchline.

As I placed the velvet box back in the drawer, I noticed a letter underneath.

I unfolded the letter. The first line stopped my breath.

"To my beloved, Rebecca."

"Thank you for everything you've done for me and Luke over the years. You've given him joy, freedom, and love. Without you, we wouldn't have the happiness we have today."

Done for you?

I repeated the phrase in my mind, thinking of Luke convulsing with fever in my arms through the night while I held him without sleep.

I'd given up my career. Put away my brushes. Spent ten years revolving around the kitchen and the child.

Those memories pressed down on me like stones, one after another---while Lucien praised another woman's sacrifices.

Lucien had mentioned Rebecca before---a childhood friend, the girl next door. She'd supposedly been too busy to attend our wedding.

Perhaps she hadn't skipped it because she was busy.

I put the letter back and turned to the computer.

I tried a few passwords. All failed. Then I typed "Rebecca," and the screen unlocked instantly.

I opened the saved billing records. Jewelry, high-end restaurants, travel packages---the spending was enormous, consistent, stretching back years.

I scrolled page by page, while a parallel life played out in my mind: my discount clothes, my budgeting spreadsheets, my abandoned paints, the painting I'd sold---my most precious one. I dressed like a nanny.

I'd tried so hard not to be a burden, worked to keep him and Luke looking polished while I hid behind the groceries and the chores.

But these numbers told me he'd never been short on money. He'd simply never intended to share his wealth with his human wife.

When the front door clicked open downstairs, I closed the laptop and returned to the living room.

Lucien paused when he saw me standing in the dark room, expressionless.

Luke was draped across his father's arms, already drowsy. From the moment they walked in, my son hadn't looked at me once.

"Iris, sorry to keep you waiting. We got back late---the gallery hosted a celebration dinner. I know you like having dinner as a family, so I brought you a takeout box."

He set the container on the table. The packaging was elegant.

I'd seen ads for that restaurant---reservation-only, in the city center, outrageously expensive.

I looked up at him in silence. His expression was one of concern, as if he were the devoted husband trying to hold the family together, the long-suffering partner bracing for his wife's unreasonable complaints.

Luke, visibly restless, slid out of his father's arms and wandered off to play with his tablet.

In front of our son, Lucien performed the role of attentive husband, opening the container for me. "It's still warm. Eat up if you're hungry."

Inside was a half-eaten, blood-rare steak.

I'd never liked meat that undercooked. This was probably Luke's leftovers.