Part 2A Taste of Deception

Life in the penthouse was, for a time, blissfully quiet.

My duties were simple: three times a day, Arthur would pick me up and sneak me onto the estate, steering clear of Claire’s line of sight, so I could prepare Cole’s meals. The rest of the time was my own. I felt my energy returning, the color coming back to my cheeks.

Arthur, on the other hand, looked like he was wilting. Each day, the dark circles under his eyes grew more pronounced.

One morning, during our clandestine hand-off, I couldn’t help but ask. “Arthur, is everything okay? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

He let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Don’t get me started, Ms. Hale. That Ms. Sterling is going to be the death of me.”

He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Her first day here, she demanded that Mr. Donovan fire me. The reason? Because I failed to inform her that she was the ‘first woman he had ever brought home.’”

My eyebrows shot up.

“Then, the next day,” he continued, “she asked me if it was true that Mr. Donovan ‘hadn’t smiled in the ten years’ since she left. I just showed her a press photo from his interview two days prior—he was smiling in it. She got so angry she threw my phone against the wall.”

It was as if a dam had broken. Arthur unleashed a week’s worth of grievances, detailing every bizarre, novel-inspired demand Claire had made. Listening to him, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I had dodged a cannonball. If I had stayed, I would’ve been a cast member in her daily melodrama, and I was pretty sure that kind of stress shaves years off your life.

But my relief was premature.

My peaceful existence came to a screeching halt a few days later when my doorbell began ringing with the frantic, insistent rhythm of an alarm bell.

I opened the door, and Claire shoved past me, storming into the apartment.

She surveyed the space like a conquering general, her eyes sweeping over the floor-to-ceiling windows and designer furniture before landing on me with a triumphant sneer.

“I should have known you’d leave so willingly,” she said, her voice dripping with accusation. “Cole had another house to hide you in all along!”

A headache was already forming behind my eyes. I wanted her gone. “Ms. Sterling, I’m a chef. That’s it. If you don’t believe me, I can show you my employment contract.”

I retrieved the document from my desk. Her eyes scanned the page, then widened in shock as they landed on the salary figure.

“A million dollars?!” she shrieked.

She snatched the contract from my hands and slammed it down on the coffee table with a laugh that was more of a sneer. “No chef makes that kind of money. This isn’t a salary, Charlotte. This is what he pays to keep you!”

That was it. I earn my living with my own two hands, with years of training and skill. Her words were a direct insult to my professionalism.

My patience snapped. I pulled out my phone and dialed Cole.

“Mr. Donovan,” I said, my voice tight, “could you please come and manage your… First Love?”

A heavy sigh came through the receiver. “She’s there? Put her on.”

Claire took the phone, her face a mask of contempt. But as she listened, her expression began to shift. The color drained from her cheeks.

She shot me a venomous glare, muttered a curt “I understand” into the phone, and hung up.

Drawing herself up, she regained her haughty posture. “You got lucky today. But don’t think this is over. Cole might be blinded by you for now, but he’ll come to his senses soon enough. He’ll see that a cheap imitation can never compare to the real thing.”

With that, she stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. I stood there, phone in hand, seriously contemplating billing Cole for emotional damages.

To avoid another confrontation, I stopped going to the estate altogether. I prepared Cole’s meals in my own kitchen and had Arthur pick them up in insulated containers.

A few days later, Arthur arrived not just with empty containers, but also with a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was an invitation to a welcome-home party for Claire.

I stared at the gold-embossed calligraphy, and the throbbing in my temples returned. I was about to refuse when Arthur added the crucial detail.

“Mr. Donovan said Ms. Sterling has been… insistent. He said if you attend, he’ll pay you ten times your daily rate for overtime.”

He gave me a look that said, Some people have all the luck.

My attitude did a complete 180. “Overtime pay? Don’t be silly. When Mr. Donovan needs me, I’m there for him. It would be my honor to attend.”

The party was held at Cole’s estate. When I arrived, Claire was at the grand piano, bathed in a soft spotlight, looking for all the world like the ethereal ‘First Love’ she claimed to be.

The moment I stepped into the room, several of the city’s most prominent figures—heirs to old money and titans of industry—left their conversations and gravitated toward me.

“Charlotte, my dear! Does your presence here mean you’re catering tonight? My evening just got infinitely better.”

“Are you considering any new offers, Charlotte? My mother has been practically begging me to poach you. Name your price.”

The piano music stopped abruptly. Every head in the room turned toward Claire.

She rose, picking up a microphone, her eyes blazing as she stared at the circle of influential people surrounding me.

“For those of you who don’t know,” she announced, her voice amplified throughout the silent room, “I am Claire Sterling. Cole’s one true love. The woman you are all fawning over is nothing but a cheap, classless replacement.”

Her voice dripped with scorn. “You’d be wise to choose who you associate with. Backing the wrong horse can be… costly.”

A few people exchanged bewildered glances, but then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they turned back to me and resumed their pleasantries.

Claire was seething. She clearly believed I had somehow brainwashed the city’s elite in her absence. But then, a new thought seemed to occur to her, and a cruel, mocking smile spread across her face.

She glided over, her dress shimmering. Her voice was sickly sweet. “My performance was adequate, I suppose. But I’ve heard, Charlotte, that you are an even more accomplished pianist. Why don’t you play something for us? Unless, of course, you think you’re too good for our guests.”