I walk into the open house and immediately blink at the blinding orange entryway. A neon hallway bleeds into a teal dining room and a lime-green kitchen.Where are my sunglasses?Bold color choices. That’s … one way to put it. Charles’s home, with its muted tans and warm wood, feels like a spa compared to this acid trip. But, to each their own, I suppose.
“Welcome,” a woman calls. She’s in her late sixties, elegant and poised, with flawless makeup. “I’m Carolyn Chase. Are you a local realtor? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
I straighten my spine. She’s clocked me, but not unkindly.
“Yes. Becca Hughes. I’ll be listing a property on Lily Drive soon.”
Her eyebrows lift just slightly. “Impressive.”
I glance around. Carolyn’s staging is pristine. Fresh roses in the entry, a self-serve espresso station near the kitchen, and a subtle hint of citrus floating in the air.
“Do you have a diffuser somewhere? The scent’s lovely. Welcoming, but not overpowering.”
She smiles. “Hidden in each room. Guests think the house just smells this good naturally.”
Smart, I make a mental note to pick some up on my way home.
“Did you say Hughes?” she asks, reaching for a brochure. “Are you related to the Hughes family, the construction and legal practice one?”
I try not to flinch. “Yes. Sam Hughes is my … husband.” The word tastes strange in my mouth. They aren’t wrong but they feel foreign at the moment.
“Right. He’s working with Rick Saunders on that salon downtown, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Sam’s sister, Holly, is launching it on Fifth Street.”
Carolyn hesitates, then leans in slightly, voice lower. “It’s not my place, but … just be careful working with Rick.”
My eyebrows knit. “Why?”
“He’s had some big and flashy wins, sure. But too fast. He came down from Portland a couple of years ago and suddenly has his hands in half the city’s development projects. And not one of his so-called partners seems to come out ahead.”
My pulse ticks up. “That’s … interesting.”
“I saw him last week behind Le Jardin meeting with some people who, let’s just say, I wouldn’t want near my escrow paperwork.” She gives me a gentle squeeze on the arm. “Just—read every word before you sign anything.”
And with that, she walks away to greet another guest. I stand there, floored, my stomach twisting in unease. I finish viewing the home and taking notes, feeling confident in Charles’s listing.
I make it halfway down the block before I pull out my phone and open my banking app. I’m double-checking my balance before I purchase the remaining staging costs and start mentally budgeting each line item when I freeze.
There’s a deposit.$15,800.00
My stomach drops. For a second, I think it’s a mistake, a glitch. Someone fat-fingered a transfer. But then I see it.
From: Samuel Hughes
How? My grip tightens around my phone. Fifteen thousand eight hundred dollars. Not a small amount … not $75,000 either.
A slow, familiar anger builds in my chest, but there’s something else tangled in it now. Confusion.
Why my account? Why not our joint savings account?
I don’t head back to the Rothschilds’. I don’t text him. I don’t give myself time to think this through. I drive straight across town to his new job site. I know he was able to start it early because he finally started using our shared calendar,jerkface.
The job site is in its infancy. Framing is barely up, the skeletal outline of what will be a custom build sits exposed against the sky. No crew on-site this weekend. Just the sound of a saw and the steady thud of something being set into place.
I slam my door harder than necessary and step out, my heels crunching against gravel as I make my way toward the structure. Sam is beside a workbench, back to me, measuring something along a beam, pencil tucked behind his ear, shirt already damp with sweat.
For a second, just a second, I see him the way I used to. Focused, dedicated, and too damn attractive. I shove that thought down so fast it almost burns.
