I stare at it longer than I should. He’s not just throwing money at this. He is being detailed, organized, and precise. Like he’s trying to learn a language I’ve been speaking my whole life.
I haven’t said a word about it; I’m not ready to. But I’ve opened every single one. Besides the deposits, Sam’s last build note is burning a hole in my purse.
I found it tucked under a strip of painter’s tape while he was finishing trim work at the cabin. Left like it wasn’t meant to be handed to me directly. I haven’t thrown it away. Haven’t reread it either. But I know exactly what it says.
I don’t know why I said you’d have nowhere to go. That’s not even true.
You’d figure it out faster than anyone would, and you did.
I think I said it because I was scared you didn’t need me, which is true. And I didn’t know how to handle that, and that’s on me.
I wish I didn’t remember it word for word, wish it didn’t sit under my skin the way it does. I shove thoughts of Sam aside, grabbing my keys. I’ve got an open house to run.
I’m early—anxious, excited, and dangerously close to being too caffeinated. I’ve placed my brand-new directional signs, the ones with my face and name on them, around the neighborhood.
The house is staged, photographed, and marketed. Local realtors are invited, a digital tour is posted, and every cushion is fluffed to within an inch of its life.
Three glass drink dispensers sit on the kitchen island: raspberry, lemon, and cucumber-infused waters catching the light like jewels. Mini quiches and blush-pink macarons from my favorite overpriced bakery sit on white platters. White tea diffusers release a subtle, calming scent throughout the space. The sign-in sheet is laid out. The playlist is soft jazz, and the lighting is perfect.
I’m straightening the bouquet when Charles walks in wearing the same polo he wore the first time I saw him, which seems right somehow.
“Wow,” he murmurs in awe. “This place looks incredible.”
I beam. “Thank you. But it’s really your beautiful home. I just wanted to honor it.”
His gaze falls on the vase I’ve set in the center of the table. A dozen dahlias in soft coral, cream, and raspberry, balanced with sprigs of eucalyptus and a whisper of baby’s breath.
“Are those … dahlias?”
I nod. “It felt right to have a piece of her here today.”
His eyes glisten as he gently touches one of the petals. “You’re a good soul, Becca Hughes. Dahlia would’ve loved that.”
“I’ll do my best to find the right family. One who will love this home as much as you both did.”
He nods and steps back outside. I watch him go, then smooth down the skirt of my deep burgundy sheath dress. It's elegant, confident—and from the consignment shop. If the hors d'oeuvres don’t get eaten, I’m saving them for tomorrow’s Zentrology girls' night. Waste not, want not.
As I go to silence my phone, I glance at a few texts:
Sam:Just saw pics of my gorgeous wife all over town, pointing to an open house. Listing looks amazing, but I know you’ll outshine the house. Good luck, baby. You don’t need it.
Zentrology Group chat
Mack
Want us to show up pretending to be millionaires to drive up the price?
Nessa
Oooo can I wear a silk scarf and say I’m from Dubai?
Phi
Calling it now—Black Widow vibes. Third husband just died… Mysteriously.
Thanks, weirdos. I’m good. But I’ll keep you on standby in case of an emergency. Love you all.
I laugh, shaking my head. Then the door opens, and it’s game time.
