I'd taken a private chef gig through a domestic staffing app. Thirty thousand dollars an hour.

The client was a young woman. She wanted home-cooked dishes, but they had to look, smell, and taste impeccable.

"My boyfriend made fun of me for not being able to cook, and I need to shut him up for good!"

"But I genuinely have zero talent. I almost blew up the rice cooker."

"Lucky for me it's his money, so I don't feel bad spending it. Please, you have to help me!"

Dirk Butler was an ordinary office worker. His job wore him out, and his stomach had always been sensitive.

To help him get healthier, I'd spent months experimenting with new recipes, perfecting every dish. When it came to cooking, I was confident.

But I'd barely finished plating the first course when the front door opened.

The girl's head whipped toward the man walking in.

"Oh no, you're back early! You could've at least warned me!"

The man's voice dripped with affection.

"Dummy. I knew you'd hire someone to cheat. Caught you red-handed."

"I'm the CEO of Butler Group. You think I'd let my baby slave away in a kitchen?"

"Smells pretty good, though. Where'd you find this cook?"

The moment I heard that voice, I froze and turned around.

The man standing there, dressed head to toe in designer clothes.

It was my boyfriend, Dirk Butler. The one who supposedly made four thousand a month.

...

Hot oil splattered onto the back of my hand, but it was like my nerves had gone dead. I just stood there, staring at the two of them.

Freda Henson let out a pouty little huff.

"Sweet talk won't save you. This lady charges thirty thousand an hour. Watch your wallet!"

Dirk hadn't noticed me. He was too busy ruffling Freda's hair with that same indulgent tenderness.

"Don't underestimate your man. I'm worth over a hundred million. Thirty grand is pocket change."

"Even if it were three million an hour, as long as my Freda's happy, it's worth every penny."

Freda melted under the flattery and tilted her face up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Smart answer."

"I just had the first dish finished. Try it?"

"Sure. Whatever you say."

Dirk turned with a smile still on his lips. The instant his eyes met mine, he went rigid.

Freda assumed it was the aroma of the food that had stopped him in his tracks. She beamed with pride.

"Not bad, right? Ms. Finch is an amazing cook. She even has a certified nutritionist license!"

Six months ago, Dirk had been rushed to the hospital with acute gastritis.

His face had been twisted in pain, but he'd forced himself to smile and told me not to worry.

I'd cried so hard I couldn't see straight. After that, I went and got my nutritionist certification.

To make medicinal cuisine taste good enough that he'd actually eat it, I'd burned my hands more times than I could count. The scars on the backs of my hands still hadn't faded.

When Dirk said nothing, Freda shot me a suspicious glance.

"What? Do you two know each other?"

Dirk snapped out of it and flicked Freda lightly on the forehead.

"What are you thinking? She's a good cook. Some people at the office hired her before."

Freda burst out laughing.

"Fair point. The CEO of Butler Group, knowing some private cook? As if."

"Ms. Finch, go ahead and bring the dishes to the dining room."

Dirk didn't look at me again. He treated me like hired help who didn't warrant a second glance.

Something lodged itself behind my ribs, heavy and suffocating.

As I served the food, my hands moved on autopilot, picking every last piece of scallion out of the bowl.

By the time I realized what I'd done, Freda's surprised voice had already filled the room.

"How did you know I don't eat scallions?"

I froze. Freda's eyes lit up like she'd figured something out, and she gave Dirk a playful shove.

"I knew it! You told her ahead of time. That's why you two were acting so weird just now!"

Freda shot Dirk a playful, reproachful look, her tone dripping with feigned exasperation.

"My boyfriend knows I can't stand scallions, so he always picks them out for me."

"I told him I couldn't handle the taste, and he just... stopped eating them entirely. The CEO of Butler Group, making his kitchen staff leave out scallions even at business dinners!"

A year ago, Dirk—who had never been a picky eater—suddenly announced he didn't eat scallions anymore.

I'd assumed his stomach couldn't handle the irritation, so I'd been careful with every meal I cooked.

Turns out, it was all to accommodate Freda's preferences.

"Now everyone in his circle calls him whipped!" Freda beamed as she complained, radiating happiness.

I stood rooted to the spot, cold seeping through every inch of my body.

She didn't notice anything off about me. She kept eating, nodding between bites.

"This really is good. Leave me your number—I'll reach out to you directly next time."

Dirk's expression cooled. His voice dropped low.

"You're just the hired cook. Don't overstep."

The warning in his tone cut through me, and a bitter wave of indignation surged up from somewhere deep inside.

I was the one who'd been with him first. So why was I being treated like the other woman?

My chest burned. I opened my mouth, the impulse to confront him clawing at my throat.

Then he pulled Freda into his arms, and his eyes locked on mine—hard, vicious.

The hostility in that stare was so foreign it stole the words right out of me.

Freda's face was pressed against his chest, oblivious to the look he'd given me.

"Dirk? What's wrong?"

The sight of them together stung so badly my vision blurred.

I mumbled an excuse about having somewhere to be and practically fled, stumbling out the door.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Dirk.

Be home tonight. We need to talk.

What was left to talk about?

When we'd first gotten together, I'd even teased him once.

"Your last name is Butler, and you work at Butler Group? Don't tell me you're secretly the CEO."

I blamed myself for being so oblivious. I never followed business news, never questioned anything he told me. Whatever came out of his mouth, I believed.

A quick search told me everything. Dirk Butler was the sole heir to the Butler family, wielding enormous power at a remarkably young age.

And I'd met him five years ago, waiting tables at a coffee shop. He'd never breathed a word of it.

Looking back, the signs had been everywhere.

He'd told me his clothes were thrift-store finds, bargain-bin deals. But the fabric, the tailoring—they were finer than anything you'd find at a designer boutique.

He complained about being overworked and underpaid, but his hands were smooth. Not a single callus.

I'd scrimped and saved for nearly six months to buy him a mid-range designer watch for his birthday.

He never wore it. Not once.

When I asked why, he'd pinched my cheek and smiled, all warm and indulgent.

"It's a gift from my girl. I'd feel bad wearing it out."

Now I understood. It wasn't that he couldn't bear to wear it.

He'd been embarrassed by it. A watch like that was beneath a man of his status.

The tears came before I could stop them. I cried the entire walk home.

Late that night, I heard the front door. Dirk stepped inside and found me sitting there, face streaked with tears.

Something flickered across his features—pain, maybe guilt—and he crossed the room to pull me into his arms. Then he sighed.

"Celeste, don't blame me."

"Freda's still in college. She's young, carefree."

"But you... all you think about anymore is work and money. You can't even go out for our anniversary without using a discount coupon."

The words hit me like a bolt of lightning.

Six months ago, Dirk had told me he'd gotten a promotion and a raise. I'd scraped together enough to buy two discount vouchers for a high-end steakhouse to celebrate.

I'd told him about it with so much excitement on my face, practically glowing.

And Dirk's expression had gone cold.

He'd slammed the door and left that night. We parted on the worst of terms.

But just now, scrolling through Freda's social media, I learned the truth. That same night, he'd been on a luxury yacht, throwing a party for her.

A single bottle of champagne from that party cost more than hundreds of discount coupons.

I suddenly felt like a joke.

Dirk had raised Freda like a hothouse flower while watching me grind myself down just to survive, and he had the nerve to call me shallow?

A violent cramp seized my stomach, and I doubled over, gagging.

Dirk panicked and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Celeste, what's wrong?"

"Don't touch me!"

I shoved his hands away with every ounce of strength I had and forced myself to stand straight.

Tears trembled on the edge of falling.

"We're done. This is it."

"Just go. Don't come looking for me again."

Dirk stared at me, eyes full of hurt.

I turned away so I wouldn't have to see it.

A sigh came from behind me.

"Celeste, whatever you're thinking, I never wanted us to end."

"But if you insist on blowing this out of proportion, maybe we both need to cool down."

His voice had gone cold. I closed my eyes and let the tears slide down my face.

Only when I heard the door shut did my body give out, as though every last drop of strength had been wrung from me. The cramping in my abdomen became unbearable, and I crumpled to the floor.

In the dead of night, my phone rang.

I sighed, answered without looking at the screen.

"Don't call anymore. We're breaking—"

Freda's voice cut in, thick with tears.

"Celeste, I think my boyfriend is cheating on me. What do I do?"

"He just left out of nowhere tonight, and he still isn't back."

"What else could it be besides sneaking off to see some woman? He used to tell me everywhere he went!"

I didn't respond.

Or rather, I had no idea how to.

What was I supposed to say? That the man who spoiled her rotten was actually my boyfriend?

I listened to the sobbing on the other end of the line, then silently pressed the button to hang up.

I didn't sleep at all. The next morning, I dragged myself to work with dark circles under both eyes.

Exhausted, I made my way home, only to find Freda standing outside my apartment complex.

The moment she spotted me, she threw herself at me.

"Please, can I stay with you?"

I didn't dare let anything show. I played dumb.

"Doesn't your boyfriend have money? Did you two have a fight?"

Freda's eyes turned red instantly.

"He cheated on me. I refuse to spend a single cent of his!"

"I'm still in college. Besides you, none of my classmates even like me. I have nowhere else to go."

She cried so pitifully that I couldn't bring myself to refuse. I took her home.

Inside my cramped rental, the atmosphere was impossibly awkward.

Freda sniffled.

"Honestly, I don't really believe he cheated. I just feel insecure, you know? I wanted to throw a little tantrum so he'd care about me more."

"Dirk doesn't know you, so there's no way he'd think to look for me here."

There was a hint of smugness in her voice. I listened and had nothing to say.

Freda didn't notice my silence. She wandered around the apartment on her own little tour.

"So, things aren't that great between you and your boyfriend, huh?"

I froze. Freda was pointing at the box of ultra-thin condoms in my drawer, a sly grin spreading across her face.

"If things were good, why would the packaging still be sealed?"

A blush crept over her cheeks.

"My boyfriend is insatiable. Every time, he wears me out completely. We never run out of condoms at our place."

"Oh, funny coincidence. I like the lemon-flavored ones too. I always make him buy this exact brand!"