Chapter 7: Ghosts in the Suburbs

Indeed.

Derek had always been picky. Otherwise, when he was with me, it wouldn’t have been his first time.

That fact still stung. He’d held me at arm’s length for years, always controlling, always keeping just enough distance to remind me of my place.

I was almost thirty, nowhere near as good as those young girls, nor as suitable as Lillian Shepherd from a matching family.

I glanced at my reflection in the window, seeing the faint lines at the corners of my eyes, the worry that never quite left my mouth. Compared to Lillian—who probably did Pilates and had perfect teeth—I felt like a thrift store version of myself.

He surely wouldn’t have any thoughts about me anymore. Even if he did, it would only be out of boredom after playing enough.

I knew better than to let myself hope. I’d outgrown fairy tales. Still, part of me wished he’d say something real, just once.

There was a time when I naively thought Derek loved me.

I’d built a whole future in my head—Derek’s name on the mailbox, a golden retriever in the yard, lazy Sunday mornings. Looking back, it feels almost laughable.

From the time I ran away from home at eighteen and he took me back to that house in the suburbs.

That house—white shutters, a porch swing that creaked in the wind, the kind of place you see in magazine ads for summer lemonade. I’d shown up on his doorstep with nothing but a duffel bag and a chipped phone. He didn’t ask questions, just handed me a towel and told me to shower before dinner.

He protected me from my addict parents, sent me to a top college out east, gave me generous living expenses every month, raising me into the image of a rich young lady.

He made sure I had everything—a car, a wardrobe, connections. He even helped me pick out my major. Some nights, I’d lie awake in my dorm, wondering if it was love or just guilt.

Over the years, it must have cost at least a small fortune.

He paid my tuition, my rent, my summer internships. There were gifts, too—jewelry, trips, things I never even asked for. I tried to keep track, but after a while, the numbers blurred.

Derek never mentioned it in front of me.

He always brushed it off—"It’s nothing, Aubrey." Like it was pocket change to him, like I shouldn’t even say thank you. I stopped trying after a while.

His family was high-profile; it wasn’t easy for him to travel, but he always came to see me. Each trip took hours by plane, and though he was exhausted, he still forced himself to ask how I was doing, whether I had enough money.

He’d show up in his tailored suits, shadowed eyes betraying his exhaustion, but never once did he complain. He’d press cash into my hand, telling me to eat more, sleep more, live more. It almost felt fatherly, in a twisted way.

I once asked him why he was so good to me.

Derek’s friends also had lovers, but they only tossed money their way, never spending so much effort.

Derek smiled, every word clear: "You’re a stray I picked up. Of course I have to take care of you."

It stung, but I laughed it off. Later, alone, I replayed the word over and over, like a song stuck on a bad chorus. At the time, I thought maybe it was a kind of love—twisted, but real.

Looking back on this sentence later, I suddenly understood. The answer to our relationship, he had given long ago.

I was just a pet; he could keep me, discard me, or even have two at once.

It sounds harsh, but sometimes the truth is. I spent years hoping he’d change his mind, but Derek never lied—not really.

Derek clearly didn’t want to throw me away.

The morning after attending Lillian Shepherd’s engagement party, without even changing clothes, he sat in front of me: "Our relationship is as usual, you don’t have to worry."

He lounged in my kitchen, tie loose, shirt wrinkled. He looked almost bored, as if nothing monumental had happened. The party had made the society pages, but to him, it was just Tuesday.

My voice trembled a bit: "What do you mean, as usual?"

My fingers twisted together in my lap. I wanted to scream, but I managed to sound almost calm.

Derek was cold and calm: "She won’t interfere with us."

He delivered the line like it was business—detached, clinical, like I was just another asset to be managed.

"If you don’t want to," he raised his brows slightly, not a hint of reluctance, "you can also take a million dollars and leave."

My chest tightened. A million dollars—enough to buy a house, a new life, anything. I wondered if he thought that would be enough to erase me.

I closed my eyes and said I’d think about it.

Actually, there was nothing to consider; everyone has their limits, and I couldn’t be a mistress. I just needed a night to buffer, to make him think my decision to leave him wasn’t that easy.

Sometimes you need to save face, even if your heart’s already made up.

A few nosy friends saw the engagement news and called that night, asking how he dealt with me.

I sat on my couch, lights off, phone buzzing with sympathy. I let it ring until the battery died.

Derek, right in front of me, answered the call without hesitation, his wrist pale: "Saw her, I don’t care."

He didn’t look at me as he spoke—just stared out the window, fingers drumming on the armrest. I felt invisible, an afterthought.

"What’s there to be reluctant about?"

He looked down and laughed: "Just a side piece."

The word stung, but I held my head high. If he wanted to reduce me to nothing, fine. At least I still had my dignity.