My eyes slowly opened, smell of food hit my nose. And it smells appetizing.
I stretched. Hand brushed cold silk on the other side. Empty.
Panic spiked. Dream? Am I back at the Vane estate? I thought.
Then I saw the black dress shirt draped over the Eames chair. The rain-streaked view of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Right. Married. Homeless. Penthouse.
I rolled out, body aching from the stress hangover. I followed the smell.
The living room was blinding. Sunlight smashed through the glass walls.
Kitchen. Open concept. Sebastian was at the stove.
Gray sweats. Black tee stretching across shoulders that were too wide for a mechanic. He held a spatula like a scalpel.
"You're up," he said. But he didn't turn around.
"You have eyes in the back of your head?" I asked, leaning on the marble island.
"Reflection in the window," he said, flipping eggs. "Coffee's in the pot. Mugs up top."
I poured. Black.
One sip. Holy hell, Sebastian actually cooked it well.
"Oh, husband, this is crazily good," I said, blowing on the steam, "you have amazing taste in beans but expensive one."
"Ah, this is owner's stuff, I'm freeloading it," he lied smoothly and smiled.."
Fluffy omelet. Chives. Crispy bacon. Toast cut into geometric precision.
I took a bite, it is practically heaven.
I narrowed my eyes. "Okay, spill. Where did you learn to cook? The Jiffy Lube breakroom?"
He smirked, leaning back with his own mug. "YouTube. I watch a lot of Gordon Ramsay when the shop is dead."
"Liar," I said, stealing a piece of his bacon. "But I'll eat it."
I took another bite. "Aren't you going to ask how it tastes?"
He paused for a second. "I know it tastes good."
"That confident?" I challenged.
"Yeah. After all, look who cooked it," he teased.
"And who is that?" I asked back.
"Your husband, of course," he said, chuckling.
I chuckled.
I ate fast. Brain waking slowly with the amazing smells. I decided to write since I'm already good at it, but I want it to be my safe zone, like a plot twist that can save the situation, I watched the man, my husband now, in front of me—doing chores, with such focus, like they're the sacred beings, facing towards the stove, facing against me, still, he got every detail in the room right, as if he knew everything, even as he is operating in the blind spots.
My brain processed the information and nerves in it moved fast and presented me with a name.
Shadow, they said, and yes, it sounds good, I like the way it sounds. And officially I decided my pen name, from now on, my pen name is Shadow.
"I need a favor," I said.
"I've got twenty bucks, remember?"
"Not cash. Tech. Does your 'friend' have a laptop? I need to write."
Sebastian paused. Eyes flicked to the closed double doors down the hall.
"There's a rig in the office," he said slowly. "But... don't touch his files. He's paranoid about privacy."
"I don't care about his crypto wallet," I said, hopping off the stool. "I just need a word processor."
"Password is 1-1-1-1," Sebastian called out.
"That's lazy," I said. "The password is lazy."
"Rich guys are lazy!" he said that from the kitchen.
I chuckled and moved into the study.
If the living room was a museum, this was mission control. Three curved monitors. A chair that cost more than a car.
I sat. Leather groaned. Nice.
Woke the screen. Password: 1111.
Unlocked.
My fingers hovered. A notification box was fading in the corner.
[URGENT] Board Meeting Cancelled - M. Vane waiting for response.
Heart skipped. M. Vane? Marcus?
Why would Sebastian's "friend" be emailing my uncle?
I hesitated. Mouse hovered.
Stop, I told myself. Paranoia. This guy is in finance. Everyone in NY finance deals with Vane Corp. It's a coincidence. Plus, this was all in the past. It had nothing to do with me now. The Vanes could drown in a tsunami for all I cared.
Another notification slid over it.
[System] firewall_update_complete.log
It disappeared, I throw the thoughts to the back of my head, whatever, I thought.
Unread messages from my agent Dave greeted me as soon as I opened my account.
Dave: Sienna?? Studio loves the draft but needs changes.
Dave: Vane Media is threatening legal if we don't deliver.
Dave: EARTH TO SIENNA.
I cracked my knuckles. The itch was back. The control.
To: Dave
From: Sienna
Subject: I'm back.
Dave,
Ignore Vane Media. I'm pulling the script. They don't get "The Glass Castle." I'm writing something new under a new pen name: Shadow.
I'm no longer under Vane Media. You've been my agent for years, fielding scripts they never knew about, and I trust you. But every dime I made went into their pockets. I'm practically at zero. I'm writing a highly commercial story to build cash fast. I'll get back to my usual style once I have enough money to survive. I need a big advance. Wire it to this new account. Details soon.
- S.
Sent.
Blank document. Cursor blinking.
I typed:
Title: THE MECHANIC'S WIFE
Cheesy? Maybe. The old me would have gagged.
But I wasn't writing for critics anymore. I was writing for rent. The world didn't want tragedy. They wanted a fairytale. They wanted a billionaire heiress who found salvation in a grease pit.
Fine, I thought, smiling. You want a fairytale? I'll give you an addiction.
I typed. The mechanical keyboard sounded like gunfire. I lost time.
"You type loud."
I jumped. Spun the chair.
Sebastian. Leaning on the frame. Arms crossed.
He'd changed. Jeans. Fresh black shirt. Boots. He looked... solid.
"I'm writing a bestseller," I said, minimizing the window. "It's going to buy us a castle. Get us out of your friend's hair."
He walked over. Stood behind the chair. I felt his heat. Soap and sandalwood.
He glanced at the screen. "Secret?"
"Top secret," I said. "I'm a writer. That's my confession. You have your secrets. I have mine."
He chuckled. Low rumble.
"You're dangerous, Mrs. Cross."
"busy with work, work is calling, I need to go."
"Leaving me here, are you sure about that?"
"Feel free to come with me, watch me all you want for a four hours doing me mechanical work."
"Um.. Go ahead husband, be busy with work, I'll do the same, for the future," I said cheering for ourselves.
"Sure." Sebastian smiled but hesitated. "And door is not open outsiders, exclusive for you and I, don't open for others, strangers are scary."
"Of course, husband," I said smiling, strangers I thought about the word.
He leaned down. His breath on my skin. I thought he might...