Chapter 2

The next morning, a faint noise pulled me out of sleep.

My lower abdomen was still cramping, and when I tried to sit up, my back seized like something had folded me in half.

I pressed a hand against the wall and inched my way slowly out to the living room. The kitchen light was already on.

Presley was standing by the counter, bent over a cutting board.

For a split second, I actually thought maybe he'd finally had a decent impulse, that he at least knew I'd just had a procedure and was putting something together for me to eat.

But as I drew closer, I realized he was meticulously packing a lunch box for Vivienne.

He had even thoughtfully jotted down a note to go with it. "Your stomach's still acting up, so skip the iced lattes. Make sure to eat lunch on time."

I stood there and stared at him for a moment. All of a sudden, it felt ridiculous to me.

As it turned out, Presley wasn't incapable of taking care of someone. He just chose not to take care of me.

Hearing me rustle behind him, he turned around. His brows furrowed the moment he saw me.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he asked.

I looked past him toward the neatly packed lunch box on the counter. "Who's that for?"

He snapped the lid on and kept his voice even. "Vivienne's stomach was bothering her last night. Takeout's too greasy, and she can't handle that right now. She's meeting a client with me today, so she can't go in on an empty stomach."

I nodded and didn't push further.

Shifting my gaze, I noticed what was sitting on the dining table. There was a bag of bread crusts and a glass of lukewarm tap water. He hadn't even bothered to turn on the electric kettle.

All of a sudden, I was reminded of the worst stretch of my pregnancy. The morning sickness had been relentless, and I could barely keep anything down.

One night, I spent hours hunched over the toilet, and by the time dawn was breaking, I was completely spent.

Dragging myself to the door, I had asked Presley to run downstairs and grab me a hot chocolate.

However, he rolled over without opening his eyes. "Can't you just order takeout?"

I told him delivery would take 40 minutes and that I was genuinely suffering. Exasperated, he sat up and ran a hand through his messy hair.

"Natalie, it's 5:30 AM. Are you seriously asking me to go all the way downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate?"

After saying that, he added, "Make sure you use your own money for that. Don't put it on the joint account."

That morning, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the delivery app for an eternity, until I eventually lost the strength to even place the order.

And then, there was the night I started bleeding, a horror I would never forget.

I was curled up alone in the hallway leading to the bathroom with blood running down my legs. I called Presley seven times. The first six went to voicemail, and the seventh was picked up by Vivienne.

Her voice was soft, like she'd just woken up. "Natalie, Mr. Quinn just fell asleep. He's had a really long day. Whatever it is, just wait until tomorrow."

Back then, I was shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone. It was our neighbor who ended up driving me to the hospital.

And now, here was Presley, up at 6:00 AM, packing a lunch box because Vivienne had mentioned her stomach was a little off.

Watching him slide the lunch box into a tote bag, I couldn't help but laugh.

He paused what he was doing and looked at me. "What's so funny?"

I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. "The 32,000-dollar necklace. Was that part of your mentoring, too?"

His expression visibly stiffened. "Have you been snooping through my things?"

"I saw the transaction record."

I held his gaze. "Presley, she just got a full-time offer. Does that really call for a 32,000-dollar necklace?"

He quickly recovered his composure. As he set the tote bag aside, his voice was laced with a hint of impatience.

"Don't blow this out of proportion. When you're bringing someone new along, you have to be thoughtful. She just went full-time, and the transition can be stressful. A meaningful gift goes a long way in making someone feel like they belong.

"Why do you women always have to read into every normal professional interaction and turn it into something scandalous?"

I looked at him, utterly dumbfounded by his audacity.

"A normal interaction?" I challenged. "Paying thousands of dollars for her seminars, buying her luxury jewelry, and waking up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch—is that your definition of normal?"

His expression darkened.

"Natalie, you're being oversensitive. I've explained myself clearly enough. What else do you want?"

I looked down and traced the edge of my glass with a finger.

"Nothing," I said. "I just finally got it now. It's not that you don't know how to treat someone right. You just don't care about me."

He clearly hadn't expected that response. He froze for a second, his frown deepening.

"If that's where your head is going, there's nothing I can do about that."

After saying that, he checked the time, picked up his keys and the tote bag, and headed for the door. Right before he walked out, he turned back.

"Since you're home today, go through last month's utility bills. The gas bill looked a little high. Check if you've been leaving the water heater on too long."

The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud.