Chapter 1

"Could you leave a contact number and details? I'll reserve the apartment for you," I said, repeatedly confirming the buyer's information with Carla Heath.

It wasn't until I saw the information Carla had filled out—where the buyer's name and social security number matched Dad's—that I finally gave up all doubt.

It really was Dad.

Carla handed me the documents and said with a smile, "Jody, I hope you find a boyfriend who loves you just as much someday. Next week is my 35th birthday, and my boyfriend said he could give me anything I want.

"This little apartment might be a bit old, but it's right in the city center. After I renovate it, it'll be just perfect for the two of us."

Carla's "kind" words pierced my heart like a knife.

The safe haven Grandma had left for Mom before she died had become a gift from Dad to his mistress.

Forcing myself to hold back the discomfort, I tentatively asked, "What if your boyfriend can't come up with that much money? I don't mean anything by it—it's just that buying an apartment is no small amount. It'd be bad if something went wrong."

But Carla laughed as if I'd told the most ridiculous joke.

"If he can't even come up with two million dollars to buy an apartment, why would I even be with him? Jody, I don't mind telling you this, but my boyfriend's company has made a ton of money from several projects recently."

She then waved the Van Cleef and Arpels bracelet on her wrist and boasted, "See this? He just gave this to me last weekend like it was nothing."

I stared at the bracelet, the hatred inside me nearly devouring me whole.

"Your boyfriend is so romantic," I said, my voice tight. "For my mom's birthday, my dad gave her a thermal mug from a supermarket promotion."

Carla raised an eyebrow smugly. "A man has to know which woman is worth his money."

She stroked her new bracelet. "Last week, I casually mentioned wanting to go to a fine dining place, and he immediately booked a restaurant that costs two thousand dollars per person. Has your mom ever been to a place like that?"

My stomach churned.

I thought of Mom's birthday last month. Dad said he was busy with work and told her to just cook herself instant noodles.

I took a deep breath and swallowed the accusations rising in my throat.

"How thoughtful of your boyfriend," I replied, forcing a professional smile. "In that case, we'll sign the contract next week. I'll have the documents ready ahead of time."

Carla flipped her hair smugly.

Just then, her phone buzzed with a message notification.

She glanced down and immediately smirked.

"Oh my, he's urging me to go for a test drive," she said, deliberately turning the screen toward me. "He insists on getting me a Porsche—says my old car isn't good enough for me."

In the chat window, Dad's profile picture was labeled "Honey", and the last message was a location pin for a car dealership.

I dug my fingernails into my palms. Yesterday, Mom asked Dad to take her to get her scooter repaired, but he said he had to see a client.

Carla sashayed away, her perfume lingering in the air.

Before she left, I added her on Instagram under the pretense of making future communications easier.

The same night, Carla posted an update on her Instagram.

"Test drive surprise! My boyfriend said white suits my new dress."

The photo showed Dad leaning against the car door, smiling, with a car dealership in the background.

I scrolled further down.

Last Wednesday, there was a post captioned, "Midnight snack."

Dad was wearing an apron, cooking a lavish seafood feast in a luxuriously decorated kitchen.

When Mom's arthritis flared up, and she couldn't get out of bed to cook, he told her to make do with instant noodles.

Last Sunday, she posted a photo of luxury shopping bags piled all over the sofa, with the caption, "Unboxing gifts."

Around the same time, the family ledger showed that Dad had refused to buy Mom a new refrigerator.

In every photo, Dad looked doting and affectionate. It was a stark contrast to the frowning, worried version of him at home who always said, "Business is tough."

I took screenshots of every single post as evidence.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed—it was Dad calling.

"Jody, how's the progress on the apartment?" He sounded weary. "Your mom's been nagging a lot lately. Try to talk some sense into her."

I stared at the photos on my feed—him with his arms around Carla, test-driving the car.

"Dad, what time are you coming home today?" I asked softly. "Mom made beef stew."

He paused for a moment. "Sorry, I can't make it home for dinner. I have to entertain a client." He sighed. "It's not easy to run a business."

Then, he hung up.

I pulled up Mom's latest post.

In the photo, she stood in front of their old, broken refrigerator. The caption read, "It suddenly stopped working, and the meat is starting to smell. Does anyone have any quick fixes?"

The first comment in the thread was Dad's reply, "Don't let the meat go to waste. Just cook it thoroughly, and it'll still be edible."

I saved all the screenshots, then turned off my phone.

On the day of the contract signing next week, I'd be handing him a "birthday gift" he'd never forget.