Chapter 3

I couldn't sleep.

It was past midnight. Conrad was snoring beside me, one arm flung across his side of the bed. I stared at the ceiling, counting the minutes until sunrise.

How.

That was the question I'd been asking myself since I told Ivy we were leaving. How do you leave a marriage when you have no money of your own? How do you start over at forty-eight? How do you prove that the money you gave wasn't a gift, but a loan?

I rolled onto my side, careful not to wake Conrad.

I'd survived worse. When Liam died, I'd had a thirteen-year-old daughter and a struggling restaurant. I'd worked eighteen-hour days, learned to negotiate with suppliers, built something from nothing.

I could do it again.

If I could just figure out how to get my money back.

Three hundred thousand dollars.

The number kept circling in my head. That was what I'd given Conrad six years ago. Not given—loaned. I had the bank transfer. I had the text message where he'd promised to pay me back "as soon as things stabilize."

Things had stabilized five years ago. He'd never paid me back.

I closed my eyes and let myself remember.

It had been a Tuesday. Early spring. I'd been at the restaurant, prepping for dinner service, when Conrad called.

"Margot, I need to see you."

His voice had sounded strange. Tight.

"What's wrong?"

"Not over the phone. Can you come home?"

I'd left my sous chef in charge and driven back to the house. Conrad was in his study, papers spread across the desk. His face was gray.

"The Riverside project fell through," he said. "The investor pulled out. If I can't cover the gap, the whole company goes under."

I sat down. "How much do you need?"

"Three hundred thousand."

The number hit me like a punch.

"I've been to every bank. No one will loan to me." He looked up. "Margot, I know it's a lot to ask."

I thought about the restaurant. About the emergency fund. Five years of profits.

"I have it," I said.

"You do?"

"The restaurant. I could sell it."

"Margot, no. That's your dream—"

"We're married. Your problems are my problems." I took his hand. "Once the project's done, you'll pay me back. We've talked about expanding anyway. Bigger location, bigger kitchen."

His eyes were wet. "I swear, as soon as the company's back on its feet, I'll make this right. You'll have the best restaurant in Connecticut."

It took three weeks to sell Margot's Table. My realtor found a young couple who'd been looking for an established place. They paid asking price. I signed the papers in a conference room that smelled like coffee and regret.

The check cleared on a Friday. I transferred the money to Conrad's business account that afternoon.

By Monday, he'd saved the company.

A year later, I brought up the new restaurant.

"You know, I was thinking about that space on Main Street. The one that used to be a bookstore? It has good foot traffic, and the rent's reasonable."

Conrad had been reading the newspaper. He looked up, distracted.

"What space?"

"For the restaurant. You said once things stabilized, we could talk about opening a new place."

"Oh." He folded the newspaper. "Honey, I don't think now's the time."

"But the company's doing well—"

"It's doing better. But we're still recovering. And the kids need stability right now. Sloane just started college, Preston's struggling in school. They need you here."

"I could do both. Hire a manager for the day shift—"

"Margot." His voice was firm. "I need you at home. The kids need you. Isn't that more important than a restaurant?"

I'd wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Wanted to remind him that I'd given up everything for this family.

Instead I said, "Of course. The kids come first."

That was three years ago. I'd never brought it up again.

The memory shifted. Sloane's twenty-first birthday. Three years ago exactly.

I'd wanted to do something special. She was Conrad's oldest, his princess, and I'd been trying so hard to bridge the gap between us. To be the mother she'd lost.

I'd spent two days planning. Invited all her college friends. Decorated the house with white roses and gold balloons. Made her favorite dinner and a three-layer vanilla cake with buttercream frosting. It took me six hours. My hands cramped from piping the roses.

When Sloane walked in and saw the decorations, her face lit up. For one moment, I thought I'd done it. I'd made her happy.

Then she saw the cake.

"Did you make this?"

"I did. Vanilla with strawberry filling. I remember you saying it was your favorite."

Her smile faded. "Margot, I don't eat homemade desserts. I only eat from Dominique Ansel."

Dominique Ansel. The famous bakery in New York. A slice of cake there cost more than the ingredients for my entire three-layer cake.

"But I made it special for you—"

"It's fine. Really." She turned to her friends. "Who wants champagne?"

The cake sat on the counter all night. No one touched it. At the end of the party, I threw it away.

Later that evening, Conrad came home with a small Tiffany box. Inside was a diamond necklace. Ten carats, he told Sloane proudly. Ethically sourced. Custom designed.

Sloane cried when she saw it. Threw her arms around Conrad's neck. "Oh Daddy, it's perfect. You always know exactly what I want."

I stood in the doorway, watching. The necklace probably cost forty thousand dollars. Maybe more.

My phone buzzed. A text from Ivy.

Mom, I'm so sorry to ask. Is there any way the tuition payment could be delayed a week? I got my work schedule wrong and I'm short $200. I can pick up extra shifts but I need a few days.

Two hundred dollars. She needed two hundred dollars and she was apologizing for asking.

Meanwhile, Sloane was wearing forty thousand dollars around her neck.

I texted back: Don't worry baby, I'll transfer it tonight. You don't have to work extra.

I transferred the money from my personal account. The one I'd been slowly rebuilding with the tiny allowance Conrad gave me for "personal expenses." It had taken me six months to save five hundred dollars. Now I was down to three hundred.

But Ivy didn't need to know that. She already felt like a burden. Like she didn't belong in this family.

Because she didn't. Neither of us did.

I opened my eyes. The ceiling was getting lighter. Almost dawn.

Seven years. I'd given seven years to this family. I'd sold my restaurant. I'd raised Conrad's children. I'd loved them as hard as I could.

And what did I have to show for it?

An empty bank account. A daughter drowning in student loans. A husband who thanked dead women before he thanked me.

I rolled over and looked at Conrad's sleeping face. I didn't hate him. I just felt empty.

But there was one more thing I hadn't told Ivy.

Two weeks ago, I'd heard a phone call.

The phone call that changed everything.