Chapter 4: Cracks in the Foundation

I couldn’t help but ask Marcus: Was Lillian really introduced by a friend?

After dinner, my hands cold as I cleared plates, I tried to sound casual. His eyes never left his laptop. After a long pause, he replied blandly, “Does it really matter how we met? The place looks great, right?”

His answer was so flat, it felt like he was brushing lint off his shirt. I sat in the quiet, staring at the screen, letting the words settle like a bad aftertaste.

A few days later, I went to the renovation office alone—Marcus was slammed at work, texting, "You’ve got great taste, babe. Just keep me posted."

Lillian showed me her design slides and renderings, seating me at a window-side table while city traffic buzzed below. The slides were stunning—arched doorways, intricate molding, chandeliers that sparkled. But it didn’t feel like me. I scanned the rooms, searching for some piece of myself and finding none.

I pointed out, “Lillian, I said before I don’t like pink or this kind of romantic European style.”

She glanced at her notes. “But Mr. Hayes specifically requested this.”

Her words hit me like a slap. Did Marcus ever actually listen to what I wanted?

I repeated, “I made it very clear last time—I like modern, minimalist style.” I crossed my arms, jaw set. I wasn’t backing down.

She gave me a meaningful look and sighed. “Alright, next time please communicate your preferences in advance.”

Her tone made me feel like a difficult customer in a boutique, not the homeowner. But I refused to let it show.

A few days later, Lillian posted the new renderings in the group chat. I was folding laundry when my phone buzzed. Marcus rushed over: “Our house really suits European style. The last version was great. You don’t like it?”

He sounded almost wounded, like I’d insulted his favorite sports team. I forced a smile, disappointment pooling in my chest.

Maybe noticing my expression, he tried to recover: “But modern style is good too. You spend more time at home, so whatever you like is fine.” His words sounded like a checkbox.

Just then, Marcus’s boss called. He hustled out, leaving his laptop open, Messenger chat still on the screen. The ringtone was sharp, his wedding band clicking against the doorknob as he left.

I hesitated, then peeked at the screen. My heart thudded.

Lillian: “So Rachel doesn’t like European style. Why did you write something else in the notes and make me work overtime to redo everything?”

Marcus: “Thanks for your hard work. Next time, I’ll treat you to dinner—any restaurant you like.”

Lillian: “I thought so. What a coincidence, her preferences are exactly the same as mine.”

Marcus replied: “Yes, I’ve always remembered that you love romantic European houses.”

A chill crept up my spine. Was this all a coincidence—or something more?

Lillian replied with a blushing emoji.

She continued: “I think your wife is targeting me. She’s very picky and hard to please.”

I wanted to scream. Since when was it wrong to want a home that felt like mine?

He replied: “She listens to me, don’t worry.”

The chat hung there, and I sat in the silence, letting the words settle like a bad aftertaste.