Chapter 3

Ella's eyes went red the moment she saw me.

She touched the back of my hand where the soup had burned it. "Mommy, did somebody hurt you? Does it hurt?"

I pushed down the ache and picked her up. "Mommy's fine. Daddy bought your present. I saw it today."

But there was little joy on her face; she focused on inspecting my burn.

Just then the lock turned.

Damian was home.

Ella stood tense and still. But the next second, we both froze—his hands were empty again.

Disappointment flickered across my daughter's face, and she quietly lowered her eyes.

She did not hide and cry as she had last time. That unnatural calm hurt more than tears.

I could not hold it in. "Where is the submarine?"

Ella grabbed at my shirt, as if afraid we would fight over her. She was the one who had been wronged, yet she was already used to managing the adults' feelings first.

Damian blinked. "What submarine?"

"The present you promised Ella. I saw it myself today!"

He pressed his fingers to his brow. "It's at the office. I'll bring it home tomorrow."

Tomorrow again.

I turned and went into the bathroom. My phone buzzed. Cecilia had sent me a friend request.

To save on hot water, I rinsed off in a few minutes. When the water touched my burns, the pain made me tremble, but I did not dare let Ella hear.

I tapped accept. She had posted an update a few minutes earlier.

"Thank you to the most dependable man in the world. Leon says this is the best birthday present he has ever gotten."

In the photo, Leon sat on a couch piled with luxury goods, holding the submarine Ella wanted. Cecilia wore an emerald necklace and leaned into Damian, laughing.

On the table sat a birthday cake shaped like a submarine, with a whole row of gift boxes beside it. Each one cost as much as several months of our living expenses.

The last picture was the three of them in front of the aquarium tank. In the corner of the frame, the black hawk crest of the Moretti Family was clearly visible.

I looked at the discount shampoo on the bathroom shelf and the sliver of soap beside it, and I laughed until I cried.

For seven years, I had barely bought myself a single new piece of clothing because I was helping Damian pay off his supposed bankruptcy debts. Once, when Ella had a high fever, I carried her two miles on my back because I could not bear to spend money on a cab.

All that time, he had already been the Don, watching coldly as we struggled in poverty.

Grief engulfed me like seawater. I slid down the wall to the floor and cried without a sound.

The most ridiculous part was not that he was rich. It was that I had taken every lie of his as proof that we were suffering through it together.

Damian pushed open the bathroom door, saw my swollen eyes, and his expression darkened.

He was holding a tube of cheap ointment, as though he were still playing the poor but attentive husband. Now, that belated concern felt like mockery.

"I said I'd bring it tomorrow. It's just a toy, isn't it?"

No.

It was never about a toy.

But I said nothing.

Dinner was strangely quiet.

Damian glanced at the silent Ella and placed a piece of chicken on her plate.

My daughter's eyes lit up at once, her face bright with surprise.

She could not bring herself to eat it right away. First, she nudged the chicken into the middle of her rice and admired it for several long moments.

My heart ached so badly I nearly cried. A child who had never been loved could mistake even a piece of chicken casually placed on her plate for an enormous gift.

That small gesture gave Ella a little courage.

She asked carefully, "Daddy, tomorrow is Father's Day. There's a parent-child model-building contest at kindergarten. The children make the models, and the dads vote. Can you come?"

She paused, her voice even smaller. "Just once."