Chapter 4 - The Morning PermissionNight in a locked pantry is a long, cold teacher.
I didn't sleep. I sat on a overturned wooden crate, resting my back against the wall, listening as the apartment gradually went quiet. At 11:30 PM, I heard Julian’s heavy footsteps go down the hallway to the master bedroom. At midnight, Fiona’s guest bedroom door closed.
I spent the remaining six hours calculating numbers in my head.
I calculated the total sum of money Julian had leech-fed off my salary over five years: approximately $240,000.
I calculated the value of the condo: $1.2 million, with $450,000 in equity.
I calculated the cost of his arrogance.
At 6:40 AM, the soft sound of bare feet padded across the kitchen tile.
A shadow broke the thin yellow line of light under the pantry door.
CLICK.
The deadbolt retracted. The oak door swung open.
The harsh fluorescent overhead lights flicked on, blinding me for a fraction of a second. I raised a hand to shield my eyes, keeping my body curled slightly on the wooden crate, playing the part of a defeated, exhausted woman perfectly.
Julian stood in the doorway. He was wearing his gray sweatpants and a rumpled white t-shirt. He looked down at me, his chest puffed out slightly, his face wearing the smug, satisfied expression of a trainer who believed he had successfully broken a wild horse.
"Where are the dishes?" he asked, his voice rough with morning sleep.
I slowly lowered my hand, letting him see the shadows under my eyes, letting him see the deliberate, small posture of submission I was faking.
"I can't cook sixty dishes without ingredients, Julian," I said, my voice hoarse and trembling just enough to satisfy his ego. "The pantry only has dry goods. I need fresh meats, produce, specialty spices, and garnishes."
Fiona appeared behind him a moment later. She was draped in a floor-length lavender silk robe, holding a steaming mug of coffee, her face fresh and utterly unbothered by the fact that her daughter-in-law had spent seven hours locked in a closet.
"She’s right, Julian," Fiona said, taking a delicate sip of coffee. "I require fresh rack of lamb for the 45th year, and fresh black truffles for the 52nd. A dry pantry simply won't do."
She looked down her nose at me, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. "Make sure you’re back by ten o'clock, Sloan. The caterers—oh wait, you are the caterer. The guests arrive at noon sharp."
I lowered my eyes to the floor so neither of them could see the icy, burning smile spreading across my face.
"I need the car keys," I whispered quietly.
Julian smirked, reaching into his sweatpant pocket and tossing the key fob for the BMW X5—a vehicle registered solely in my name—onto the quartz counter.
"Don't take all day," Julian warned, stepping back to let me crawl out of the closet. "And don't embarrass me today, Sloan. Mom’s friends are high-society people. If the table isn't full by noon, we’re going to have a serious problem."
"I understand," I said, picking up the keys from the counter.
"And Sloan?" Julian added, taking a step closer, leaning down so his breath brushed my ear. "Remember who built this life for you."
May you like
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, looked him dead in the eye, and gave him a single, submissive nod.
"I'll never forget," I said.
