Chapter 2: Secrets Over Breakfast

The next morning, I woke to the sounds of chaos echoing down the hall. This penthouse was supposed to be soundproof, so whatever was happening had to be bad.

Lucas’s assistant—Marcus, the guy who’d worked for the Chase family longer than I’d been alive—was reporting in. From the way Lucas’s voice carried, something major had gone wrong.

In the study, I heard files slam against the desk lamp, the crack sharp as a gunshot. Papers fluttered to the Persian rug like fall leaves.

"Mr. Chase, how do you want to handle the leak?" Marcus asked, voice tight.

"Feed them to the fish in the Atlantic," Lucas snapped, voice cold and flat. He had that old-money confidence—the kind you only hear at black-tie galas or in boardrooms where everyone’s last name is on a building.

The door opened. Lucas’s white cane brushed against my leg. Instantly, his expression shifted, all warmth and charm. It was dizzying how fast he could switch.

I took a step back, but he caught me gently. His grip was velvet over steel—soft, but impossible to escape.

"Why are you running? Did I scare you?" His voice was teasing, but his hand held me in place.

"I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop," I stammered, fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve.

"You’re my wife, babe. You can hear whatever you want." He said it so easily, as if I belonged in this world of ruthless deals and trust funds.

But I was just a stand-in. A fake. Every moment I spent here was borrowed time.

"Let’s get breakfast."

We sat at the long dining table. Morning light spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Central Park glowing below. I picked at my sandwich—prosciutto and brie. Stuff I used to drool over at Trader Joe’s, now making my stomach churn.

Lucas reached for my hand across the table. I pulled back, pretending to grab my coffee mug instead, fingers trembling.

"Lucas, what would you do if someone lied to you?"

He stilled, spoon hovering in midair as he stirred his milk. The silver clinked against his Hermès china.

"Lock them up. Maybe worse," he muttered, rolling the spoon between his fingers. He said it like he was reading a shopping list.

My throat closed up. "Even if it was me?"

His eyes turned toward me—unfocused, but somehow seeing straight through me. "You wouldn’t lie to me. You’re too good for that."

Every word made my guilt burn hotter. He trusted me completely. I didn’t deserve it.

He pushed a cup of warm milk toward me. I forced a smile and took a sip. But Sophia liked hot milk. I’d always preferred cheap black coffee.

My appetite was gone. I forced myself to swallow another bite, afraid he’d notice if I left my food untouched. Each mouthful was a tiny punishment.