I realized then. That backdrop, the place in his interview that seemed oddly familiar—it was the very apartment my mom had bought as a wedding gift for me and Naomi. She’d told me she wanted us to have something better, something safe and comfortable. Naomi had refused it, insisting on staying in our tiny, run-down place. Yet here Ben was, living in the place that was supposed to be ours.
As if that wasn’t enough, Ben looked me over with a lazy smirk. “Hey, didn’t Naomi tell you to bring soup for me? Where’s the soup?”
I clenched my fists, anger simmering, but I forced myself to keep steady. “Why are you living here?” I asked him.
“Oh, this?” he said with a grin, gesturing around the place like he owned it. “Naomi let me stay here. She said the place I was renting before was too small and not inspiring enough. She thought moving here might get the creativity flowing, you know?” He chuckled, the pale look in his face doing little to hide his smugness.