Sunlight streamed into the penthouse kitchen, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was a beautiful Manhattan morning, the kind that usually made Celena feel hopeful.
Today, she felt nothing but a cold, clinical detachment.
She walked into the kitchen dressed in a sharp, charcoal suit. No apron. No house slippers.
The smell of burnt toast and greasy bacon hung heavy in the air. Ava was at the stove, wearing a frilly apron over a black lace slip. It was a caricature of domesticity.
Foster was reading the Wall Street Journal at the island. Leo was in his high chair, throwing scrambled eggs onto the floor.
"Morning," Ava chirped. "Hope you don't mind, I took over the kitchen. You looked tired."
Foster looked up, admiring Ava's backside. "Domestic goddess," he murmured.
Celena walked past them to the coffee machine. She poured herself a black coffee.
"I want her cup!" Leo screamed, pointing a sticky fork at Celena's mug. It was a custom ceramic mug, a gift from a friend years ago.
Ava turned, spatula in hand. "Oh, give it to him, Celena. It's just a mug. He likes the color."
Ava reached out to take the mug from Celena's hand.
Celena moved her hand back sharply. "No."
The single word hung in the air like a gunshot.
The kitchen went silent. Foster lowered his paper.
"It's hot coffee," Celena said flatly. "He'll burn himself. And it's mine."
"Just get him a juice, Celena," Foster grumbled. "Stop making a scene."
"I'm not the maid," Celena said, her eyes locking with his. "Ava is right there. She's the... motherly figure, isn't she?"
Foster blinked. He wasn't used to this tone. He was used to apologies.
Celena took a sip of her coffee, the heat grounding her. She checked her Cartier watch-a fake one Foster had given her for their first anniversary.
"I have a viewing," she said.
Foster sneered. "Enjoy your little house hunting. Don't buy anything tacky."
He thought she was going to look for furniture for the Hamptons house.
"I won't," she said.
She was actually going to sign the final closing documents at the title company.
As she turned to leave, she heard Ava whisper, loud enough to carry, "She's so cold. Poor Leo."
"She's just jealous," Foster replied, stroking Ava's arm. "Ignore her."
Celena grabbed the keys to the Porsche Panamera from the bowl. Foster thought it was his car. But he'd insisted the Porsche be leased through the company and, for tax purposes, had put her down as the primary driver on the corporate account. A convenience, he'd called it. Another form of control. Now, it was her escape.
"Don't wait up," she called out.
She walked out the door, the sound of Leo's tantrum fading as the heavy wood clicked shut.
In the elevator, she leaned her head against the cool metal wall and exhaled. A long, shuddering breath.
She wasn't jealous. She was liberated.
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