Chapter 4

That day, I was suddenly sent on a business trip to fill in for a colleague who'd gotten sick.

When I got home to pack my things, Lydia was busy in the kitchen, sorting through vegetables.

I told her to cook for one that night—only Michael would be having dinner at home.

Forty minutes later, I had just arrived at the airport when a flurry of alerts started popping up from the front door camera.

When I opened the feed, I caught sight of a scruffy-looking stranger with his hand around Lydia's throat, shoving her up against the elevator doors.

I instantly called the cops and then dialed Michael. He said he was about to head into the parking garage.

I told him to be careful and not to get physical.

Through the crackling feed, the man's rage blasted out.

"Was it you who tipped off the cops?" he spat. "My buddies and I were having a blast until you screwed it up. Are you trying to get yourself killed or what?"

Lydia was on the verge of screaming. "All you do is gamble. What about our son's future? He's about to enter college, and have you saved a single dime?"

That was when it hit me—this guy was Lydia's husband.

I remembered his name was Victor Cook.

He played under the name Victor, which was a bit of cosmic irony, as he was the perpetual loser at the gambling table.

Victor, fuming, raised his hand.

"I was just trying to make some money for our son's tuition. I was finally on a lucky streak today, and you just had to ruin it!" he shouted.

Just as his hand was about to land on Lydia, the elevator doors slid open.

Michael stormed out of the elevator and sent Victor flying with a swift kick.

Then the cops showed up and took everyone away.

The security cameras didn't catch a single soul for the rest of the night.

It wasn't until a little after eight the next morning that Michael and Lydia showed up together.

He told me they'd been at the police station giving statements.

At the time, something just didn't sit right with me.

It wasn't until Michael locked me out on the balcony to defend Lydia that I realized the strange detail I'd overlooked about that incident—Lydia had changed her clothes.

She turned up wearing something completely different from what she had on the night before.

I pointed it out right away.

Michael's ears instantly flushed red.

His eyes darted all over the place, and he appeared totally flustered.

When people got embarrassed and angry, their instinct was to get defensive and lash out at others instead.

His face turned bright red. "That was ages ago. Why are you bringing it up now? We were at the police station all night. She just needed to change before work, so I gave her a ride. What is your deal?"

The more he talked, the less it all made sense.

"That wasn't even a huge deal. Why did you need to spend the whole night at the police station?" I asked.

Michael got so agitated that he almost jumped to his feet.

"What do you mean by that? Are you getting suspicious or something?" he shot back. "Why do you always have to think the worst of people?"

He was getting really worked up.

I snorted in exasperation, shooting him a look and calling out how off he'd been acting lately. "In just two days, this is the second time you've snapped at me because of Lydia."

He immediately backed down, his anger vanishing in a heartbeat. Trying to placate me, Michael put on a sheepish face, all ready to launch into some kind of explanation.

But I didn't want to hear another word.

Skipping breakfast, I just grabbed my stuff and stormed out the door.

On my way out, I ran into Julia.

She was busy tending to her flower beds, and when she saw me, she gave me a grandmotherly smile.

"Sophia, what did the mother hen cook for you this time?" she asked, her voice full of affection.

Julia had told me before that Lydia once spent an afternoon gossiping about me with some of the neighbors while they were hanging out downstairs.

Lydia told them I couldn't get pregnant because I barely ate anything.

Julia joked that Lydia was always playing the mother hen, meddling in everyone's business, and started calling her "mother hen."

Back then, I didn't pay it much attention, thinking it was all because Julia didn't really like her.

But right now, my smile was more like a grimace, all bitter and twisted. "I haven't eaten yet. How about you, Julia? Let me buy you breakfast," I said.

Julia looked at me thoughtfully. She then set down her gardening tools, stood up, and slipped her arm through mine.

"Let me treat you this time," she said warmly.

I thought we'd just pop into a small breakfast place nearby for something simple.

But to my surprise, Julia hailed a cab and took me straight to a five-star hotel.

One meal here would wipe out my entire day's pay.