Chapter 3: Lunch With the Enemy
The next morning, Adrian walked into the kitchen carrying a designer makeup bag.
“My mother’s coming for lunch,” he said casually. “Cover all that up and smile.”
I accepted the bag.
And smiled.
At noon, Marjorie arrived dressed in pearls and superiority. She entered without knocking, kissed Adrian’s cheek, and studied my face like a woman inspecting damage she had ordered but not delivered herself.
“You look exhausted,” she said.
I carried lunch to the dining table. Roasted chicken. Lemon potatoes. Her favorite wine. Everything looked perfect.
Marjorie sat at the head of the table.
My seat.
“Adrian says you’ve finally come to your senses,” she announced.
I poured wine into her glass. “Did he?”
“Young wives become emotional,” she said. “Marriage requires discipline.”
Adrian leaned back, smug and comfortable.
“You’ll clear out the guest room tomorrow,” Marjorie continued. “I’ll move in this weekend.”
I placed the bottle down gently.
“Of course.”
Adrian smiled. “See? That wasn’t difficult.”
No.
It was not difficult at all.
Not when every word was being recorded by the hidden phone beneath the sideboard.
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