Chapter 1
My parents had been married for 36 years, but they slept in separate bedrooms.
I grew up used to the quiet emptiness of our home. I thought every marriage was like that.
Then my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and he brought that woman home.
My mom didn't even look up from chopping vegetables in the kitchen.
After my dad passed, the lawyer read the will in front of everyone: 80% of the company's shares — all to Cora Perez, his first love.
The whole family braced for my mom to lose it. She just nodded and said, "I see."
Three days later, Cora clicked into the boardroom on her high heels, all smiles and swagger.
Then the lawyer stands up again. "Ladies and gentlemen, there's another will. I've just been authorized to make it public."
The smile on Cora's face? Gone.
*****
Our house was huge that my dad, Liam Brown, and my mom, Jane Brown, each claimed an entire floor for themselves. For thirty-six years, they hardly ever crossed paths.
Upstairs was my dad's study and bedroom, always filled with the scent of cigars and ink.
Downstairs was my mom's greenhouse and bedroom, where the air was always tinged with the gentle fragrance of gardenias.
I was Avery Brown, their daughter.
I grew up surrounded by those two scents.
I got used to the silence at the dinner table, and to the gap between my parents in every family photo—with me always in the middle, the buffer between them.
I figured all marriages would end up like this, respectful but icy.
Just three months ago, Dad got the news.
Liver cancer, late stage.
The icy shell around our family suddenly cracked wide open.
That day, Dad asked me to come to his study and opened up to me for the first time, talking more than he ever had before.
He didn't mention his illness or the company. Instead, he shared what he regretted most.
He said there was someone he'd let down.
A week later, he brought that woman home.
Her name was Cora Perez. She wore a classy beige dress, and her hair was neatly done up.
She looked younger than my mom, and was clearly well-maintained. There were faint lines at the corners of her eyes, but they only made her smile seem gentler.
Dad took her hand and introduced her to me.
"Avery, call her Ms. Perez," he said.
My throat felt tight, and I couldn't get a single word out.
That name had caught my eye before, scribbled on the back of an old photo album in Dad's study.
Delicate script read: [To my love, Cora Perez.]
She was the one Dad had kept hidden in his heart for thirty-six years.
Cora smiled at me, but her gaze slid right past me and landed on the kitchen.
Mom was chopping vegetables.
It wasn't loud, but it hit everyone like a drumbeat, right in the chest.
Cora walked over, her voice so gentle.
"Jane, let me give you a hand," she said.
Mom kept chopping, not missing a beat.
"There's no room for two in this kitchen," she replied.
Her voice was as calm as ever, utterly unruffled.
Cora's hand froze awkwardly in midair.
Dad walked over, sounding a bit reproachful.
"Jane, Cora is our guest," he said.
Mom finally stopped chopping.
She turned to Dad, her eyes as if she were looking at a stranger.
"Liam, this is your house, not mine.
"Entertain your guest yourself."
With that, she took off her apron, wiped her hands, and walked right past us, heading upstairs.
But she didn't go to her greenhouse. She went straight to the attic.
That was the quietest, most forgotten corner of the house.
After that, our house turned into an absurd family drama.
Cora moved in, taking the room right next to Dad's.
She acted like the lady of the house, fussing over Dad's meals and keeping him company with gentle conversation.
Meanwhile, the real lady of the house locked herself away in the attic. I was the one who brought her three meals a day up there.
All the relatives came by to see Dad, and when they spotted Cora, their expressions were all over the place.
My uncle, Ryan Brown, pulled me aside, so mad he was practically stomping his feet.
"Your dad's lost it! Why isn't your mom stepping in? How can she just let that woman waltz right into the house?" he fumed.
I had no idea how to respond.
I went to check on Mom. She was sitting by the attic window, reading a book. Sunlight spilled over her, and there was an almost surreal calm about her.
"Mom, something's going on downstairs..."
"Just let me know when dinner's ready," she replied.
She didn't even look up, like whatever was happening downstairs had nothing to do with her.
Dad's health kept getting worse by the day.
He started drifting in and out of consciousness, constantly calling out for Cora.
Cora stayed by his bedside, clutching his hand, tears streaming down her face.
"Liam, don't leave me all alone," she sobbed.
That scene stung; I could barely stand to watch it.
I rushed up to the attic, desperate to defend Mom.
"Mom! Dad, he..." I blurted out.
Mom closed her book and met my eyes.
"Avery, when someone's about to die, they cling to whatever matters most to them.
"If it was never yours, you shouldn't let it make you angry."
I was stunned.
I thought she'd be angry or heartbroken, but in her eyes, there was only a cold, almost ruthless rationality.
Dad passed away peacefully at dawn.
Cora had stayed by his side all night, her eyes puffy and red from crying.
Mom came down from the attic, wearing a black dress. She walked over to Dad's bedside, composed and steady.
She didn't shed a tear, just stood there in silence for a while.
Then she turned to me.
"Avery, let Mr. Quinn know.
"It's time to make the arrangements."