I smiled bitterly. He didn't need to tell me twice. I didn't want to spend another second in this house.
I crammed the last of it into the suitcase, grabbed only a small bag of essentials, and stepped out of the guest room. The moment I did, hushed laughter drifted from around the staircase landing—two of the household staff, voices low but not low enough.
"The missus really hit the jackpot, didn't she? He spoils her rotten. Cooks all three meals himself, carries the plates right to her. Honestly, his cooking's better than any restaurant."
My feet stopped moving.
"Right?" another voice chimed in. "Compared to Miss Harding, don't you think she's the one who acts like the real Mrs. Delgado? If you ask me, it's only a matter of time before the Harding girl gets tossed out for good."
"Shh, keep it down…"
"Oh, relax. She can't hear us."
I stood there, perfectly still.
Dustin used to refuse to set foot in a kitchen. He'd said a man's hands were meant for making money, not holding a spatula.