Chapter 9
BECCA
Istep out of the flooring store with a heavy box in my hands and a heavier weight in my chest. Seeing Sam threw me off more than I care to admit. I knew he’d signed the postnup. Phoenix texted me a picture of the notarized document this morning.
I should feel peace. Secure, or at least protected.
Instead, all I feel is … hollow.
I place the box in the back seat, beside the half-price pig’s ear for Bernie. Then I catch my reflection in the window. Who is this version of me—paying invoices, signing contracts alone, making choices Sam should have been making with me?
My mind flashes back to one of our first serious conversations, sprawled on my thrift store couch, legs tangled. Sam had found one of my budget spreadsheets open on my laptop.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, baby,” he says, eyes wide. “But I thought you made, like … less than half that.”
“None taken,” I laugh. Then I open up about how money used to give me stomachaches growing up. How I dreaded the mailman. How I lied about needing field trip money so my parents wouldn’t feel worse. How I never, ever asked for extras.
And then I trusted him with all of it. My mind, heart, body, anxieties, and money.
I run my hand through my hair, then grab Bernie’s treat and head toward the Rothschilds' front door. Their Tudor-style mansion looks like a scene from a Nancy Meyers movie. It has perfect hedges, a limestone entryway, and iron lanterns that glow even in the daylight.
When I unlock the door and step inside, I hear the rhythmic thump of a tail against the base of the stairs.
“Really, Bernard?” I laugh, spotting him sprawled out like a furry throw rug. “What if I was a criminal? You’d just roll over for a belly rub?” I tease.
He rolls with zero hesitation, presenting his stomach like an offering.
“Shameless,” I mutter, kneeling beside him for a long, indulgent scratch.
My phone buzzes with a text from Vanessa:
Nessa
Hey, I know you wanted extra catering shifts. Just talked to my manager and she needs help for the next three weeks. Corporate gigs midweek, weddings on weekends. I sent you the schedule. Pick your poison and I’ll sign us both up.
I could cry. Nessa has always known how to make me feel less alone, even without trying. I pull up the screenshot and scan the calendar. Two weeknights, and one Saturday. The tips alone might help me buy the matte black kitchen faucet I’ve been eyeing for the tiny house.
I text her back:
You’re an angel. Book me Tues/Thurs + next Sat. Let’s hustle
Bernie groans dramatically beside me. I lay my head gently against his.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I whisper. “I’d trade lives with you in a second.”
But I don't really mean it.
Because as terrifying as this all is—being alone, scraping by, rebuilding my dream from scratch—it’s forward momentum. It gives me something to focus on.
And focusing on the future is a hell of a lot better than thinking about the crater where my marriage used to be.
I clip the leash to Bernie and head out for our afternoon walk. The neighborhood is beautiful; polished and pristine. A far cry from the wild land Sam and I called home, with its pines and dirt trails and half-finished projects.
I don't belong here. The trimmed hedges and luxury SUVs scream money, security, and generational ease. Every smiling passerby looks like they can see through me—to the trailer I grew up in, to the busted sneakers I wore until senior year, to the sheer effort it took to merely exist.
I pull out my phone to check the time, but a notification flashes across the screen from our old budgeting app.
Transaction: $415 – Plumbing Parts Depot
My stomach drops.
Probably a part for Holly and Mandy’s dream.
I shove the phone in my back pocket like it burned me. I want to scream. Or cry. Or laugh at how completely and utterly Sam has replaced me in the plans I thought we made together.
Unable to resist, I open my bank app. $93.41
I sink onto a nearby bench and press my fists into my thighs to stop the tremble. I knew it was going to drop after the check was cashed by Bennet, but panic still creeps in.
Will my phone get shut off? Do I need to sell my car? Can I eat something besides ramen this week?
I squeeze my eyes shut against the anxiety starting to bubble up. My chest tightens, breath shortening. I haven’t seen my account this low since college. And even then, I had roommates and hope, and late-night shift paychecks to get me by.
Bernie senses it. He hops onto the bench and rests his big head on my leg like a weighted blanket. I run my fingers through the wiry fur behind his ears and inhale deeply.
I have four weeks of housing. Catering gigs that pay in tips. A full tank of gas. A job that pays every two weeks. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough.
An older gentleman in khaki pants pulled high and a polo tucked in walks by with a golden retriever in a plaid harness. He slows and nods. “Beautiful dog.”
“He’s not mine. I’m just watching him,” I reply with a weak smile.
“Even borrowed dogs know who the good ones are,” he says simply. Then tips his head and keeps walking.
I blink against the unexpected tears rising in my eyes. Maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe not today. But I’ll get there. Eventually.
I wake up with a pit sitting heavy in my stomach, but at least the panic has passed. Sleep helped. Or maybe it was Bernie’s snoring that did the trick. Either way, I made it through the night without texting Sam.
Until I step outside to find a to-go cup of my favorite coffee—oat milk vanilla cold brew, extra ice—exactly how I order it. That almost makes it worse. I see a folded note on the porch next to the life-giving elixir.
I know it’s not much. But I’m proud of you. – S
I stare at the note for a full minute before crumpling it gently and sliding it into my purse. Not ready to forgive, but not ready to throw it away either. As I’m settling into my car, I receive a text.
Capricorn
Some people will underestimate you today. Let them. Grace under fire is your superpower—but healing still takes time. You don’t have to be okay all at once. Just keep moving forward. Steel doesn’t rush the forge.
Figures. Leave it to the stars to call me out and cheer me on in the same breath. I’m not okay, but I’m not broken, either. Not the kind of broken that stays. I’ve rebuilt before, and I’ll do it again.
I close the horoscope, shove my phone in my pocket, and drag in a long breath through my nose. Time to work.
I end my day by answering emails. I also double-check two purchase orders for the new supply closet for a customer. I finally respond to the fourth message from a worried potential landlord. He’s asking about his overpriced bungalow that he wants to rent.
Once I get back to the Rothschilds', I change into leggings and sneakers, leash up Bernie, and head outside. The neighborhood glows golden with sunset, every lawn trimmed to within an inch of its life.
Bernie trots beside me like a show dog, tongue out, tail wagging, oblivious to my stress. I glance down at him. “You’re a good boy,” I say, and I swear he nods in reply. Therapy dog and best friend in one.
When we get back, I give him a few extra minutes of cuddles, change into my catering uniform, and head out. Vanessa has already sent three texts and a voice memo about tonight’s event. I haven’t responded yet, but she’ll know I’m coming. I always show up.
Tonight’s the annual charity gala: the town’s excuse to wear overpriced heels and drink too much under the guise of fundraising.
The place smells like money—gardenia arrangements, warm rolls, and whatever candle someone decided cost enough to be tasteful.
I walk through the employee entrance of the banquet hall, hair in a slick ponytail and apron already on.
“If I have to pass one more tray of mini crab cakes, I’m gonna start smuggling them in my bra,” Nessa whispers as she appears at my elbow, curls pinned up in a way that suggests she tried to follow the dress code and then immediately reconsidered.
“Only if you share. I’ve eaten nothing but a granola bar and a latte from the man who gave away all my money, but damn, that overpriced drink was delicious.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m broke. And charming. It’s a deadly combo.”
We round the corner into the ballroom, and that’s when I spot them.
Mrs. Hughes. Holly. And Mandy. Full glam, full sneer, full-body eye roll from Mrs. Hughes the moment our eyes meet.
“Becca?” Holly says, blinking like she’s confused I’m upright. “You’re working? Don’t you have … another job?”
I put on my best smile. “Yep, many people need a few to pay the bills. I’m trying to earn enough to build the cabins. You know, since my life savings got rerouted to fund your dream instead. Crab cake?”
Holly flushes. “I—I didn’t know you were … struggling,” she stammers, glancing at Mrs. Hughes as if realizing she’s missed something big.
“That’s because you didn’t ask. You assumed taking $75,000 was no big deal?”
Holly stares at me, eyes wide, mouth a little ajar.
Mrs. Hughes cuts in. “Well, I suppose it builds character.”
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “Maybe you should’ve tried it with your kids.”
I walk away, head held high, tray still full. And then I successfully avoid them the rest of the night. Did Nessa cause the champagne glasses to overflow, spilling the liquid on Mandy's shoes? Maybe.
By the time the night is over, my feet ache and my pockets are overflowing with tips. Pride stings less when it’s paying the bills.
I duck into the hallway behind the ballroom, pretending to restock while sneaking a few deep breaths. Just ten more minutes, and I can slip into the prep kitchen. I’ll count wine glasses, scrape frosting off trays—anything that lets me avoid smiling at those who think I'm less than.
Voices echo from around the corner. I freeze when I recognize them. Rick and Mandy.
I slow my steps, ducking behind a catering cart.
Rick’s voice is low, edged with irritation. “I thought you said he wouldn’t get into the details.”
Mandy exhales, the sound sharp but controlled. “He wasn’t supposed to. You’ve heard him—he cares about the build, not the backend.”
“He was asking about customer acquisition,” Rick says. “That’s not surface-level.”
I shift behind the catering cart, pulse ticking up.
Mandy huffs under her breath. “Since when does he care about that? He’s never cared before.”
Rick doesn’t answer right away. “Something’s got his attention now.”
“Well, it doesn’t change anything,” Mandy says, smoothing something in her tone. “We don’t need to drag him through every moving piece before we’ve even opened the doors.”
Rick lets out a quiet breath. “I’m not saying we do. I’m saying if he keeps pushing, he’s going to want to see how everything’s structured.”
“He trusts you,” Mandy says quickly. “That’s why I brought you in.”
There’s a pause. “You’re the one he listens to,” she adds, a little softer now. “If you tell him it’s handled, he’ll back off.”
Rick shifts, like he’s weighing that. “Yeah. As long as it actually is.”
“It will be,” Mandy says. Then, more firmly, “It has to be.”
Rick’s tone turns practical. “Funding’s lined up. Build timeline’s aggressive, but doable. Once we’re open, the rest will fall into place.”
“Exactly.” Relief threads through her voice. “That’s all I’ve been saying. We just need to get it open.”
Another pause, then Rick exhales. “Then let’s keep it moving. The longer we stall, the more chances there are for questions.”
Mandy lets out a small laugh, a little brittle around the edges. “Then we don’t stall.”
Rick puts his hand at the small of Mandy's back and leads her back into the ballroom, fake smiles plastered in place.
What the hell did I just hear?
The conversation wasn't outright wrong. And somehow … that made it worse. They weren’t whispering or even hiding. If anything, they sounded … certain.
My phone buzzes in my hand, jolting me out of it.
Sam
Thanks for letting me help pick out the flooring. You didn’t have to let me be part of that. I noticed you haven’t used the card at all this week. Are you okay? Do you need anything?
I know I’ve messed up in more ways than I can count. But I still see you, Becca. Still love you. And I’m not giving up on us.
I read it once. Then again. Of course he noticed I haven't used our joint card. Of course he’s paying attention now. Tracking the spend, watching every dollar, tallying it all together.
Just like I always used to do. And damn it, part of me respects that. Wants to fold and acknowledge him. Because the thank you felt real, like he was grateful to be a part of the dream in a small way.
But then—I still see you.
A hollow laugh builds in my chest. Did he ever see me?
Did he see me when he handed off our savings like it was his to give? When he decided our future without me?
My grip tightens around the phone. I can’t afford softness right now. Softness doesn’t buy tile. Or paint. Or dignity.
Another buzz hits my palm.
I almost ignore it. It’s not Sam this time.
It’s a text from Holly.
Holly
Hey… random question. Do you know how to build a basic forecast? Rick said we don’t need one yet, but Sam asked about it.
Before I can answer, another text comes in.
Holly
Sorry, ignore me. I’m probably overthinking it.
My stomach drops. I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. I know exactly how to answer her.
I just don’t know if I should.