“What’s your password?” he demanded.
“My birthday,” I said.
Nine years of marriage.
A six-digit password that simple—and yet, he still failed to unlock my phone before it locked itself from too many incorrect attempts.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
When we arrived at the house, Michael immediately helped Daniela—who was suffering from pregnancy nausea—into the master bedroom with a look of deep concern.
Then he instructed the cook to prepare all her favorite dishes.
Coming back downstairs, he caught a glimpse of me walking alone toward the guest room. Something about my lonely silhouette made him pause.
After a moment’s thought, he said to the cook,
“Prepare a couple of Ashlyn’s usual dishes too. Set the table for three tonight.”
In the guest room, I opened my suitcase—only to find all my clothes had been slashed to ribbons.
Thankfully, my passport and important documents tucked deep inside were untouched.
Just as I gathered everything and turned to leave, I found Daniela blocking the door.
She held a black bottle in her hand, eyeing me with scorn as she scanned me from head to toe.
“Wow, Ashlyn. You’ve got some nerve,” she sneered.