I smile, sliding into the familiar rhythm of our evening. "I was just getting some air in the garden. Show me after dinner?"
He nods eagerly, resuming his task with renewed enthusiasm.
I help with the final preparations, moving around the kitchen with a confidence I didn't have weeks ago. This space feels more like mine than the rest of the house—probably because I've spent more time here, eating snacks with Henry, learning where everything belongs.
Arthur arrives just as we're finishing. He steps into the kitchen with his usual quiet authority, but something in his posture softens when he sees us. He kisses my cheek like it's habit, like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.
"How was your day?" he asks.
Henry jumps in with a detailed account of his science experiment, and the moment passes.
Throughout dinner, I watch Arthur. The way he listens when Henry speaks. The way his eyes track to mine occasionally, checking in without words. The way his hand reaches for mine under the table, warm and steady.
It all feels so real. So genuine.
But my mother's voice lingers.
He never even looked at you before you had money.
After Henry goes to bed, Arthur and I move to the living room. He pours a drink, offers me one.
I decline.
He sits beside me on the couch, not touching but close enough that I could lean into him if I wanted to.
"You're quiet tonight," he observes.
I look at him. His face is composed as always, but his eyes are attentive, focused entirely on me.
Arthur asks about my day. I tell him I talked to my mom. He tells me something Henry said that made him laugh. Everything feels normal. Easy. I smile. I laugh. I respond.
And all the while, a single thought sits quietly between us, unnoticed but present.
I was chosen.
But if I stop being useful—would he still want me?
