Chapter 3: Red Flags and Renderings

The designer’s name was Lillian—drop-dead gorgeous and sharp as a tack. She was the kind of woman who talked with her hands, lipstick always perfect, and her heels never made a sound on the showroom floor. Her laugh was the kind you could hear from across the street, the kind that cost money.

She pitched open-concept living and accent walls, and I found myself nodding even when I didn’t quite get it. Marcus hyped her up like she was the Michelangelo of Midwest interiors—“Lillian can make even a shoebox look like a palace.”

He introduced us and said right in front of me, “Don’t try to save us any money. Use the best designs, the best materials.”

The words hovered in the air, and Lillian’s eyes glinted as she nodded. For a second, it felt like a flex.

She smiled at me, saying, “You’ve got it good, Mrs. Hayes. Not every husband is this generous.” Her tone was sweet, but I couldn’t tell if she was complimenting me or sizing me up.

She flipped through her portfolio, then slid over a price list. My jaw dropped. I tried to keep cool, but my fingers gripped the couch cushion. “Is this… normal?” I whispered. Marcus just smiled.

Normally, he’d pick a fight over a Target rug. But this time, he barely glanced at the contract before signing and handing over the deposit, happy as a clam.

On the way home, I asked if he wanted to think it over. He shrugged, watching the stoplights change. “What’s there to think about? It’s our first house. It deserves the best.”

I called my best friend to dinner, buzzing with excitement. We met at our favorite Italian joint—the garlic bread came out hot, the checkered tablecloths a little sticky, Sinatra crooning from a dusty speaker in the corner. I couldn’t stop talking about backsplash tiles and walk-in closets.

She raised her glass. “That guy of yours finally figured it out.”

She grinned at me, eyes twinkling. “No wonder he treats you so well. You really bring him luck. Since marrying you, his career’s gone through the roof. His salary’s tripled, right?”

She nudged me, waggling her brows, and I just shook my head, laughing. “All his good fortune is thanks to you. The better he treats you, the luckier he gets.”

I stirred my coffee, feeling warm inside. Maybe love was a good luck charm after all.

Marcus is always buried in work, so I run the home front solo. Friends tease me for running a one-woman hotel. I pay the bills, stock the fridge, keep his favorite coffee beans on hand—even learned to fix the leaky faucet off YouTube.

When he was managing that big project, he worked late and sometimes only came home once a week. His side of the closet would sit untouched, and I’d tuck notes in his lunch bag, hoping he’d find them between meetings.

The project was a hit, the CEO started noticing him, and suddenly he was coming home with stories of “special assignments.”

He’d brag, “I couldn’t have done it without Rachel. She’s my secret weapon.” It felt good to be needed, to have my sacrifices noticed, even if it was just a kiss and takeout pizza.

Until I saw the messages Marcus sent to Lillian.

The glow of my phone’s screen felt like a flashlight in a dark room. At first, it was all business—payment reminders, site visits, attachments. Then the receipt for the deposit landed in his inbox.

Marcus wrote: “If you finish this big project for me, will you be able to get promoted?”

My hands went clammy. For a second, I thought about putting the phone down, pretending I hadn’t seen anything. But the words on the screen made my stomach twist. Why would Marcus care about Lillian’s promotion?

Lillian sent a winking emoji. I pictured her lips curling, eyes gleaming.

Marcus replied: “Great, so how will you thank me?”

My eyes widened, heart racing. There was a comfort here I hadn’t noticed before.

Lillian wrote: “I’ll treat you to a big meal another day, at your favorite restaurant.”

Favorite restaurant? Since when did he have a favorite place?

Marcus: “I’m really looking forward to it. After all these years, my tastes haven’t changed.”

A sharp pain shot through my head. How ironic. I didn’t even know what Marcus’s favorite restaurant was.

He always insisted on home-cooked food. In a year of marriage, we’d eaten out maybe five times. I’d even bought online cooking courses to get better. All this time, I thought he hated eating out—for us.