Chapter 3

I packed one suitcase.

Five years in a penthouse that could swallow my childhood apartment ten times over, and everything that was truly mine fit in a single carry-on.

The rest—the designer wardrobe his sister had curated, the jewelry his mother lent me like props for a performance, the shoes that pinched because they were bought in Vivienne's size by an assistant who never bothered to check mine—I left on the bed, arranged neatly.

A costume returned after the final curtain call.

I tucked in a few personal items—my mother's jade ring, a recipe book stained with five years of kitchen memories, and a small photo of Sophia and Eloise from their first birthday, the one where Eloise had cake smeared across her entire face and Sophia was solemnly trying to wipe it off with a napkin.

I pressed it between the pages of the recipe book and zipped the suitcase shut.

When I came downstairs, Margaret Blake was already seated in the living room, legs crossed, tea steaming, as if she'd been waiting for this moment for five years.

She probably had.

"Leaving so soon? I thought we'd at least get a farewell breakfast." Her smile was porcelain-thin. "I've already called the agency to arrange a proper nanny for the girls. Someone with credentials."

She let the word land.

Credentials. As opposed to whatever I'd been—a debt-ridden girl playing house.

"The girls have allergies," I said evenly. "Sophia can't have tree nuts. Eloise is sensitive to dairy. Their pediatrician's number is on the fridge. Sophia has a nightmare cycle—usually Tuesdays and Thursdays—she needs the rabbit and a glass of warm milk with honey, not sugar. Eloise—"

"I'm sure the nanny will figure it out." Margaret waved her hand.

I set down the binder I'd prepared—thirty pages of schedules, preferences, medical notes, school contacts, and emergency protocols. A document no one had asked for, that no one would probably read.

But I wrote it anyway. Because those girls deserved someone who knew them.

Even if that someone was being shown the door.

Margaret eyed the binder with faint amusement.

"You really did play the part well, I'll give you that. Almost convincing."

I met her gaze. Held it.

"It was never a part, Margaret."

For the first time, I saw something shift behind her eyes—not guilt, exactly, but the uncomfortable recognition of a truth she'd spent five years denying.

She looked away first.

I walked toward the front door, suitcase rolling behind me.

That's when Harrison's sister, Caroline, appeared from the study hallway, phone in hand, blocking my path with practiced casualness.

"Oh, you're actually going through with it." She leaned against the doorframe, scrolling her phone with exaggerated disinterest. "Vivienne is already redecorating, by the way. She wants to turn the kitchen into a wine cellar. Says she doesn't cook."

She let that hang in the air.

The kitchen.

My kitchen.

Where I'd made hundreds of meals for a family that never thanked me. Where I'd perfected recipes at midnight because Sophia suddenly wanted her grandmother's soufflé and I'd called three bakeries to learn the technique. Where I'd stood alone on Christmas Eve, preparing a feast for twelve while Harrison attended a "work dinner" that smelled like Vivienne's perfume when he returned.

That kitchen was the only room in this house where I'd ever felt real.

And now it would become a wine cellar.

Something sharp twisted in my chest, but I kept walking.

"She'll need a good contractor," I said without stopping. "The gas lines are tricky. I'd hate for anything to... explode."

Caroline's smirk faltered.

I stepped outside into cold morning air, and for the first time in five years, I breathed without weight on my chest.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Ms. Castillo, your interview with Aurelia Dining Group is confirmed for Monday, 10 AM. Please bring your portfolio.

Aurelia Dining Group.

The most prestigious restaurant conglomerate in the country.

I'd applied three months ago—secretly, carefully, using my maiden name, submitting recipes and credentials I'd built in silence while the Blake family slept.

Nobody knew.

Not Harrison. Not Margaret. Not my lawyer.

This was mine. Just mine.

I allowed myself one small smile—the first real one in months.

Then my phone rang. Harrison.

I answered.

"The girls are asking for you." His voice was clipped, controlled. "Sophia won't eat. Eloise locked herself in the bathroom."

A pause.

"Just come say goodbye properly. You owe them that."

You owe them.

Not—I'm sorry. Not—Please.

Just another transaction. Another obligation.

"I left a binder on the counter," I said. "Everything they need is in there."

"A binder? They need their—" He stopped himself. Recalibrated. "They need stability, Serena. You can't just vanish."

"Watch me."

I hung up, slid into the cab, and gave the driver my new address—a small studio apartment I'd leased last month with savings I'd hidden from every Blake accountant.

As the car pulled away from the estate, I watched the iron gates shrink in the rearview mirror.

I didn't cry.

I'd used up all my tears years ago, alone in that beautiful, empty bedroom.

What I felt instead was something unfamiliar—terrifying and electric:

The first pulse of a life that was finally, completely mine.

Then my phone lit up again. A message from Vivienne.

Serena, I know this is awkward, but could you send me the recipe for Harrison's favorite risotto? He's been asking for it and I can't seem to get it right. Thanks, love! 💕

I stared at the screen.

Then I laughed—sharp, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that lives right next to a scream.

I typed back one line:

Make your own memories. You're the wife now.

And blocked her number.