Slum Wife, Villa Nanny

Liam Moore snatched the phone back and locked the screen in one swift motion.

I watched his every move, my voice turning cold as I questioned, "Cloudridge Villa is under Matilda's name, and yet the Homeowners Association sent the bills to you. So, which one are you planning to explain first?"

He set the phone face down on the table, took a sip of water, and only then spoke.

"A relative of mine wanted to qualify for a first-time homebuyer program. It was tied to residency, so he used Matilda's ID. He went overseas recently and asked me to handle things while he was gone."

"Which relative?" I demanded.

"You wouldn't know him. An uncle from back home."

Liam was lying. In ten years of marriage, I had met every member of his family. There was no such uncle.

I was about to press further when helplessness flickered across his face.

"You don't seriously think I bought Matilda a villa, do you?" he asked, his face giving nothing away. "You know what I make. If I had that kind of money, we'd have moved downtown a long time ago."

As he spoke, he served a bowl of soup to our son, Ezra Moore.

Just then, the range hood went silent, and Matilda Shaw came out carrying a plate of honey-glazed ribs.

"Beatrice, everything's ready. Take your time eating. I need to head home and take care of my daughter. Just leave the dishes in the kitchen. I'll come by tomorrow morning to clean up."

Matilda had no idea what had just happened. She simply removed her apron, changed her shoes, and left.

All the while, she never exchanged a glance with Liam. The only exception was when she stepped around me and placed the plate of ribs directly in front of him. It was her signature dish.

Back then, after interviewing more than a dozen household helpers, she was the only one who could make Liam's favorite honey-glazed ribs and also cook the crispy potato galette that Ezra and I loved.

Matilda said she grew up in a rural area and hadn't had much formal education. She was four years younger than me and a single mother.

I felt sorry for her. Besides, she charged only half the usual market rate, so I hired her without hesitation.

Over the years, I treated her like a little sister. Whenever I had anything extra, I thought of her first, and I always made sure her daughter got a share of whatever Ezra had.

And now, her name was on the deed to a 3,200-square-foot villa. Meanwhile, the three of us—her employers—were living in a cramped, old apartment.

"Darling, eat up before it gets cold," Liam said, biting into a rib and motioning toward the table.

I glanced around the table. Every dish was something he liked. The crispy potato galette that Ezra and I loved hadn't appeared in over a year.

The meal was utterly tasteless.

…

Later that night, while I helped Ezra with his homework, Liam went to take a shower. I quietly picked up his tablet and synced his text messages and expense records.

The most recent entry was a 1,500 dollars payment to the HOA. The entries before that were random purchases, mostly cosmetics and toys.

But I had never seen any of it. Liam had always handed his entire salary over to me, so how could there still be more than 100 thousand dollars sitting in his account?

As I scrolled up, I saw a 20 thousand dollars transfer from just a few days ago. He had been sending the same amount every month for the past nine years.

The recipient was Matilda.

In an instant, my breath caught. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

Clenching my teeth, I opened his income records.

Ezra was born in our second year of marriage. At the time, Liam told me his company was downsizing, and his salary had dropped to five thousand dollars a month.

He made me pinch every penny. I wasn't allowed to buy new clothes, and Ezra could only have digital versions of picture books. Even buying an extra pound of pork was enough to earn a lecture.

In the end, I couldn't take it anymore and decided to find a job. But if I worked, someone had to take care of Ezra.