Chapter 3

I wrenched my hand free from Julian's grip and raised my right hand, slapping him hard across the face.

The sharp crack echoed through the empty entryway. Julian's head snapped to the side.

"AH! You're not allowed to touch Julian!"

Sophie, who had been pretending to be drunk against the wall, instantly sobered up and lunged forward, slapping me hard across my left cheek.

A burning pain spread. My eyes narrowed, and I raised my hand to slap her back.

But Julian was faster. He grabbed my wrist and shoved me backward.

My foot slipped. My back slammed into the metal door handle. A sharp pain shot up my spine, and I gasped.

Julian stood squarely in front of Sophie, frowning at me.

"Claire, are you insane? She's drunk. Are you really going to fight a drunk woman?"

Sophie leaned softly into Julian's arms, glancing at me provocatively, a mocking smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Julian, leave her. Let her go. There are plenty of prettier, more sensible women in New York. Who needs her?"

Julian didn't argue with Sophie. He just rubbed his temples, his tone dismissive.

"You're too impulsive tonight. Go somewhere and cool off. We'll talk tomorrow."

I braced myself against the wall and stood up straight. I looked at them, said nothing more, grabbed my two suitcases, and walked into the elevator without looking back.

That night, I barely slept at the Four Seasons.

The next morning, my phone was flooded with unread messages and voice notes.

Some were from the elites who'd been at the dinner, teasing me about when the "one week of housekeeping" would be redeemed.

Others advised me to quit while I was ahead.

Julian's best friend even sent a voice message to the group chat:

"Claire, stop being so proud. You've got no family in New York. Without Julian, you can't even pay rent. Come back and apologize to Sophie."

I locked the screen without expression and didn't reply to a single one.

Images from the past few years flashed through my mind.

On our fourth anniversary, Sophie pretended to help Julian plan a surprise. She tricked me into wearing an apron and waiting in the restaurant's back kitchen for four hours, filmed me looking pathetic, edited the video, and posted it online with the caption "The Most Devoted Nanny."

On our fifth anniversary, Sophie gave me a gag ring with a strong allergen painted on the inside. My finger swelled and festered. I was rushed to the ER in the middle of the night.

Every time, Julian had only one line: "Sophie means no harm. She's just playful."

I casually opened Instagram. The first post on my feed was a nine-grid photo Sophie had posted ten minutes ago.

The photos showed last night's midnight open-air cinema, a Manhattan rooftop bar, and an old arcade in Queens.

In every shot was Julian. He wore a casual shirt, head bent as he won a stuffed toy for Sophie at the claw machine, smiling relaxed and indulgent.

When I used to suggest dates at places like that, Julian would look at his watch impatiently:

"Claire, don't waste time on childish places."

My phone buzzed. A message from Julian:

"Don't overthink it. Sophie got scared last night. I took her out to clear her head. Come back to the penthouse at noon. Sophie says she wants to apologize to your face."

Just then, the hotel concierge called to tell me the sixth-anniversary gift I'd ordered three months in advance had arrived at the front desk.

It was a pair of custom black onyx cufflinks, with Julian's initials engraved on the back.

I looked at the exquisite velvet box and decided to go back to the penthouse one last time.

To return the cufflinks, the apartment keys, and the access card.

From then on, separate paths.

At eleven in the morning, I arrived at the penthouse door. It was ajar.

I pushed it open and stepped inside—

BANG! BANG!

Two sharp party poppers exploded overhead. Colorful confetti mixed with cold, sticky champagne soaked my hair and clothes!

"Surprise! Claire, happy first day of housekeeping!"

Sophie stood in the living room with half a bottle of champagne, laughing so hard she was doubled over.

She clattered over in high heels, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me toward the center of the living room, shoving a lace maid apron in my face:

"Why the long face? Smile! I threw this apology party just for you!"

"Let go of me!"

I yanked my hand free and stepped back. But my high heel landed on the champagne foam covering the floor.

I lost my balance and fell backward—

THUD.

My chin slammed into the sharp corner of the marble entryway table!

A burst of pain. Warm blood poured down my chin and neck, soaking my collar.

"Claire!"

Julian's shocked cry came from behind the bar.

He charged over like a madman, dropped to his knees, and pulled me into his arms. He grabbed napkins from the table and pressed them hard against my bleeding chin, his hands shaking violently.

"Call an ambulance! Sophie, call an ambulance!"

His voice was trembling. He pressed his cheek against mine.

"Claire, look at me. Don't close your eyes. Please don't leave me..."

Through the blur of blood, I saw Sophie step back, holding her phone with an innocent expression.

"Why are you yelling at me? She slipped on her own. I was just trying to joke with her..."