Chapter 1 - The Four Bowls Of Ramen
There were four bowls of instant ramen on a black marble table built for twelve.
That was the part Julian found insulting.
Not the fact that his mother had moved into our penthouse six months earlier and never contributed to groceries.
Not the fact that every dollar of Julian’s salary disappeared into an account Eleanor controlled before our mortgage, utilities, or household expenses were paid.
Not even the fact that I had spent the previous eight months quietly covering almost everything.
The ramen offended him.
Julian stood beneath the crystal chandelier in a black suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent and pointed at me across the table.
“I give my entire paycheck to my mother.”
Eleanor smiled behind him.
She was sixty-three, blonde, polished, dressed in a cream designer suit and pearls even though we were eating instant noodles on a Wednesday night.
I said nothing.
Julian grabbed one of the bowls and looked at it with disgust.
“I make twenty-five thousand a month, and this is what you serve me?”
Eleanor laughed softly.
Not enough to be called cruel.
Enough that I heard it.
I looked at my husband.
We had been married for four years.
And for the first time, I realized I was no longer angry.
Anger requires hope.
I had stopped hoping Julian would recognize what had happened to us.
“This isn’t funny,” he said.
“I didn’t laugh.”
“You think this is some kind of lesson?”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“I work twelve-hour days.”
“So do I.”
“You knew my mother needed support.”
“I knew she needed temporary help.”
Eleanor finally spoke.
“A mother should never have to explain why her son takes care of her.”
I looked at her.
“You’re right.”
She seemed pleased.
Then I added, “But a wife shouldn’t have to finance a husband who earns three hundred thousand dollars a year.”
Julian’s face hardened.
“My money is my business.”
“Our household expenses are apparently my business.”
“I told you. I have responsibilities.”
“To your mother.”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
His voice rose.
“I can have a hundred wives, but I only have one mother.”
The room went completely silent.
Even Eleanor looked briefly surprised.
Not offended.
Proud.
As if Julian had just passed some final test of loyalty.
Then he pointed toward the entrance.
“Don’t like it under my roof? Get out.”
I looked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The skyline glittered beyond them.
Thirty-two floors below us, headlights moved along the avenue like tiny white threads.
Then I slowly stood.
Straightened my white dress.
And smiled.
“Your roof?”
Julian frowned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I glanced at Eleanor.
Her smile weakened.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
“Before you call it yours again,” I said, “ask your mother what she signed before we moved in.”
Julian turned sharply.
“Mom?”
Eleanor’s hand tightened around her handbag.
Her face went pale.
I folded my arms.
“Go ahead. Ask her.”
Julian stared at his mother.
“What did you sign?”
Eleanor looked at me.
Then at him.
And for once, she had no prepared answer.
May you like
Because the penthouse Julian had spent two years calling his family home had never belonged to him.
And Eleanor had known that from the beginning.
