Chapter One

  I Would Never Divorce my kids.

  i

  Beautiful Falls is nestled about thirty minutes from Washington D.C., hidden down winding two-lane roads that make you feel like you are deep in the country. It is a place of perfect houses sitting on perfectly huge plots of land that all used to be farms. It is a place of perfectly manicured lawns that stretch as far as the eye can see in a green sea. Cars sit at the front that cost more than twice what a regular person could make in a year.

  The families are full of gifted children—or at least possess the gift that money can buy—and perfectly happy parents who seem to love and help each other, making a perfect team. Of course, a divorce would come along every year or so and create a small fire in the social life of the country club, or someone would be caught having an affair with a tennis instructor. But generally, everything was perfect.

  At the center of it sat Jessica.

  Originally from Poland, possessing a noble last name she despised and tried to hide, she had married well in her mid-twenties. Her husband, Samuel, was a man in his early forties at the time who now was the CFO of a defense contract company for the U.S. military. She had three children: Luna, Louise, and Luke (eleven, nine, and seven, respectively), two huge Great Danes she cared for almost as much as the children, and a house so big it had a stable with horses, even though no one in the family rode.

  But before the Great Danes and the defense contracts, back in college, she had fallen in love with Thomas.

  The only issue was that Thomas was madly in love with Jasmin, a Swiss redhead studying at the same Ivy League school before she returned to Switzerland to run a big firm. So, Jessica settled for the only intimacy he offered freely: a shared love for food.

  She remembered the nights in his dorm room vividly. Outside, the New England snow would be piling up against the window; inside, Thomas would be sitting cross-legged on the floor, treating a wooden cutting board like an altar.

  “You have to try this cheese with a slice of strawberry,” he whispered, leaning in close. He held out a cracker, his fingers grazing hers as she took it.

  Jessica took the bite, her knee brushing against his in the cramped space. It was a shock to the system—first the aggressive, violent sourness of the berry that made her jaw tighten, followed immediately by the rich, fatty melt of the brie that soothed it. A perfect, harmonious chord of flavor.

  “Oh my god,” she murmured, watching his mouth as he waited for her reaction. “That is… amazing.”

  “Right?” Thomas’s eyes lit up, losing his usual brooding look and becoming as enthusiastic as a kid speaking about his favorite dinosaur. “I found these strawberries in the organic part of the market. They were super sour, so I thought they would only be good for garnish, but it pairs perfectly with the fat of the brie.”

  “How do you think of that?” she asked, swallowing the last of it, craving another immediately.

  “I’m not sure,” he shrugged, looking at the cheese with genuine affection. “I guess I just simulate the tastes in my head?”

  “I need to smoke whatever you are having to be able to do that.”

  “Oh sure, should I turn it into brownies for Your Highness?” he teased, a grin spreading across his face. He knew she hated the references to her family’s title, but coming from him, it felt like a pet name.

  “Stop it,” she said, shoving him kindly, letting her hand linger on his shoulder a second too long.

  She always thought he also loved her back, just not as much as he loved Jasmin. When their degree finished, he moved to Switzerland. Jessica started working in a company where she would meet Samuel, originally from India and already a CFO in his forties, which would later culminate in the aforementioned wedding.

  The year they got married and moved to Beautiful Falls, Jasmin died in a skiing accident in Zermatt. Consumed with grief, Thomas came back to the U.S. Jessica insisted he visit them in Beautiful Falls.

  “We can go to all the Michelin restaurants in D.C.,” she said over the phone.

  “I’m not sure, I haven’t felt like eating in a while, everything tastes like ash.”

  “But that’s exactly why you should come. We have this beautiful new house; you can have a room that is bigger than the floor of the dorms we used to live in.”

  “I’m sure your husband will love that.”

  “He will love that I love it.”

  He did come, and they did eat at every Michelin restaurant within driving distance. A month after his first arrival, inspired by the food, he decided to open his own restaurant. Jessica supported him with the initial investment, which he repaid after the first year, right before the first star came.

  Five years and three stars later, he finally moved out of the shack a farmer had converted into a simple rental and bought a proper home in Beautiful Falls. It wasn’t a six-bedroom, nine-bathroom palace like Jessica’s; it was an older three-bedroom with a wood stove he liked—a steal for a 'modest' 1.5 million dollars. While the restaurant was booked months out, a table always sat waiting for Jessica, an exclusive perk she leveraged to launch her social empire.

  The name of the restaurant was Jasmini. The dish that gave him the third star—a dessert of sour strawberries and cream—was named "Lover's End."

  ii

  It was three o'clock on a Wednesday when Jessica sat at her exclusive table at Jasmini's, waiting. She had been requested for a favor—not explicitly, of course. Nothing in Beautiful Falls was ever done directly or explicitly. But she had known the moment the phone rang.

  "Hi, Jessica! How are you? This is Mehan!" The voice bubbled over with enthusiasm, the verbal equivalent of a golden retriever.

  "Hi, Mehan. I'm good. How are you?"

  "Everything is perfect." Everything was always perfect. "Listen, do you have time for lunch this week?"

  Mehan had married John Marucci. She came from a traditional Indian family; he was a tech founder whose app helped the government spy on terrorists in the Middle East—a romantic origin story for the modern age. Mehan had been raised for this exact moment in life. Her family had instilled in her that her worth was proportionally equal to her husband's success. Her role was to support his domestic existence so he could focus on work and climb ever higher. She had not factored into this equation that one day she would age, and her ambitious husband might trade her in for a newer model.

  "It's a bit tight," Jessica said, probing. "Anything in particular?"

  "Oh, nothing really." Nothing was never really nothing. "You know, our fourth is entering school age, and I was thinking of trying that new school nearby. Yours go there, right?"

  This innocent question was, in fact, a confession. A new school for gifted children had opened in the area two years ago, and the waiting list already stretched five years into the future. It just so happened that the director was a close friend of Jessica's. What Mehan was really saying was: I want you to leverage your friendship to get my youngest into the school so the neighborhood knows we are doing well.

  "Oh, yeah, they transferred when it opened," Jessica replied. "Sure, I can make lunch. Would Wednesday at Jasmini's work for you?"

  "Oh my god, absolutely. I haven't been in a while."

  Of course you haven't, Jessica thought. You don't have a standing table.

  "Great. See you then."

  Mehan arrived wearing a cream one-shoulder top that draped asymmetrically over wide-leg trousers in the same shade—an outfit that whispered money while pretending to say nothing at all. A knotted rope bag hung from her wrist like a piece of modern sculpture, and gold glinted tastefully at her ears and fingers. Tortoiseshell sunglasses sat perched on her head, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. The look struck the precise balance Beautiful Falls demanded: respect for the restaurant's prestige, but not so formal as to appear like she was trying. Effortlessness, in this world, required exhausting effort.

  "Hi, Jessica!" She leaned across the table for a hug, trailing a cloud of something floral and expensive. "How are the kids?"

  "They're wonderful," Jessica said, which was the only acceptable answer. "Luna's doing a poetry unit that's driving her crazy, Louise just started violin, and Luke has decided he wants to be a paleontologist this month."

  "Oh, how adorable! John Jr. went through a dinosaur phase too." Mehan settled into her seat, scanning the room with the subtlety of a surveillance drone. "This place is even more beautiful than I remembered."

  It was. Thomas had an eye for restraint that most wealthy people lacked. The dining room was small—only twelve tables—with exposed brick, soft lighting, and furniture that looked like it belonged in a farmhouse in Provence rather than thirty minutes from the nation's capital. No gold leaf. No chandeliers. Just impeccable taste and a six-month waiting list.

  "Thomas renovated last spring," Jessica said. "He found these antique sconces in a village outside Lyon."

  "You two are so close." Mehan's smile didn't waver, but her eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly. In Beautiful Falls, a married woman's friendship with an unmarried man was a subject of quiet speculation—fodder for tennis court whispers and book club theories. Jessica had long since stopped caring.

  "We went to college together," she said, which was true and also none of Mehan's business.

  A server materialized with two glasses of champagne, unsolicited.

  "From Chef Thomas," he said. "He'll be out to say hello shortly."

  Mehan's eyes widened. The chef himself, coming to the table. This was currency she could spend for months—a story to be told at every gathering, each retelling polished until it gleamed. Oh, when I was at Jasmini's, Thomas came out personally. He and Jessica are just the closest friends.

  "That's so sweet of him," Mehan said, already composing the narrative.

  Jessica sipped her champagne and waited. She knew this lunch would unfold in three acts, as all such lunches did. First, the pleasantries—children, husbands, harmless gossip about people not present. Second, the slow circling toward the actual request, couched in enough plausible deniability that Mehan could retreat if she sensed resistance. Third, the transaction itself, wrapped in the language of friendship so that no one had to acknowledge what it really was.

  They were still in act one.

  "So, how is John?" Jessica asked, because she was supposed to.

  "Busy, as always." Mehan's smile tightened at the edges. "The company is expanding into Europe, so he's traveling constantly. Berlin last week, London next month."

  "That must be hard. With four kids."

  "Oh, we manage. I have wonderful help." She said this quickly, defensively, as though Jessica had accused her of something. In Beautiful Falls, having help was mandatory but admitting you needed it was gauche. The performance of effortless motherhood required an invisible army of nannies, housekeepers, and tutors, none of whom could ever be mentioned in polite company.

  "Of course," Jessica said.

  The appetizers arrived—a delicate arrangement of burrata, roasted figs, and honey from Thomas's own hives. Mehan made the appropriate sounds of delight and reached for her phone to photograph it.

  "Do you mind?"

  "Not at all."

  This was a lie. Jessica minded enormously. But she understood that the photograph was not really about the food. It was about proof—evidence that Mehan had been here, at this table, eating this dish that most people would never taste. The image would appear on her Instagram within the hour, tagged with the restaurant's location and a caption that struck the precise balance between casual and curated. Lunch with a dear friend. So grateful.

  Grateful. That word did a lot of heavy lifting in Beautiful Falls.

  Mehan tucked her phone away and took a bite. Her face shifted—Loss of composure was rare among the women in this circles, but good food could break anyone.

  "Oh my god," she breathed.

  "I know."

  "The honey is—"

  "From his rooftop. He keeps bees."

  "Of course he does." Mehan laughed, and for a moment she seemed almost human. "Is there anything that man can't do?"

  Fall in love with me, Jessica thought, and then buried the thought so deep it might as well have never existed.

  "He's very talented," she said instead.

  They ate in silence for a moment, and Jessica felt the energy shift. Act one was ending. Mehan set down her fork, dabbed at her lips with the cloth napkin, and leaned forward with the expression of someone about to share a confidence.

  "Jessica, can I be honest with you?"

  No, Jessica thought. You're about to be strategic.

  "Of course," she said.

  "This school—Wharton Academy—it's not just about the education." Mehan's voice dropped, as though the neighboring tables might be listening. They probably were. "It's about the environment. The connections. I want Priya to grow up around children who will... you know."

  "Challenge her?"

  "Exactly." Mehan nodded vigorously, grateful for the euphemism. What she meant was: children whose parents are rich and powerful enough to be useful later. "And I've heard the director is wonderful. Margaret, right? I think you know her?"

  Here it was. The ask, finally surfacing.

  Jessica took a slow sip of champagne, letting the moment stretch. She had learned long ago that silence was a tool. People rushed to fill it, and in rushing, they revealed themselves.

  "We're on the board of the same charity," Jessica said carefully. "The children's hospital fund."

  "That's so wonderful. The work you do." Mehan's hand fluttered to her chest. "I've been meaning to get more involved in philanthropy myself."

  I'm sure you have, Jessica thought. Now that you need something.

  "It's very rewarding," she said.

  Another silence. Mehan's smile was beginning to strain at the edges. She had expected this to be easier—a simple yes, wrapped in pleasantries, the favor granted before the main course arrived. But Jessica had not survived this long in Beautiful Falls by giving things away for free.

  "You know," Jessica said, "Margaret mentioned they're looking for donors for the new science wing."

  The words landed like stones in still water. Mehan's expression flickered—Loss of composure again, quickly corrected—as she calculated the cost of admission. A science wing. That was not a small check. That was the kind of money that came with a plaque on the wall and a seat at the annual gala.

  "What a coincidence," Mehan said, her voice slightly strained. "John and I were just discussing how we wanted to give back to the community."

  "Were you?"

  "Absolutely. Education is so important to us."

  Jessica smiled. The negotiation was complete. Mehan would write a check large enough to make Priya's admission a foregone conclusion, and Jessica would make a phone call to Margaret that would seem like a casual mention rather than a quid pro quo. Everyone would get what they wanted, and no one would ever have to acknowledge the transaction for what it was.

  This was how things worked in Beautiful Falls. Favors were currency, relationships were investments, and friendship was a word people used when they meant something else entirely.

  "I'll mention to Margaret that you're interested," Jessica said. "I'm sure she'd love to have coffee with you."

  "That would be amazing." Mehan's relief was palpable. "Thank you so much, Jessica. Really."

  "Of course. What are friends for?"

  The main course arrived—a lamb dish with a reduction so complex it probably had its own Wikipedia page—and the conversation drifted to safer waters. Husbands. Children. The upcoming charity auction. The woman in their circle who had just gotten work done and was pretending she hadn't.

  But Jessica was only half-listening. Her attention had shifted to the kitchen door, where Thomas had just emerged, wiping his hands on a towel. He spotted her and smiled—that same smile from the dorm room, the one that made her feel like she was the only person in the world worth talking to.

  "Ladies," Thomas said, arriving at the table. "How is everything?"

  iii

  "Do you think they'll get divorced now?"

  Bianca threw the line like a stone into still water, watching the ripples spread. She was lounging in a white bikini with gold hardware, her mimosa sweating in the afternoon heat.

  "I don't think she can afford that," Karina replied, adding kindling to the fire about to ignite.

  Karina was twenty-nine—the height of youth in this neighborhood, and therefore the highest degree of threat. Her saving grace was that Jessica had taken a liking to her, and Jessica's approval meant safety from everyone else. But today she was pushing her luck. She had just gotten her breasts done, and this poolside gathering was her debut.

  Her new bikini left little to the imagination: a royal blue triangle top and matching bottoms, both covered in the unmistakable interlocking G's of Gucci, with delicate gold chain links connecting the pieces at the hips. The logo print was almost aggressive in its declaration of cost—six hundred dollars to cover approximately eighteen square inches of skin. The fabric clung to her body with the devotion of something that knew its purpose, accentuating curves that had never been stretched by pregnancy, skin that had never been marked by time. Around the pool, the other women noticed. Of course they noticed. They smiled and complimented and made mental notes to increase their Pilates sessions, their resentment hidden beneath designer sunglasses and freshly applied SPF.

  "Oh, don't be ridiculous," Jessica proclaimed, waving a hand dismissively. "They just got married. There are far bigger sins than drunkenly kissing the Pilates instructor."

  The incident in question was the entertainment of the week. Derek, forty-nine, had just made partner at a lobbying firm in the capital. He had started doing Pilates six months ago—for his back, he claimed, though everyone knew better. One week ago, he and his wife Valentina, forty-two, mother of two, married since she was twenty-five, had attended an intimate party at another partner's home. The invitation was supposed to be a celebration of Derek's professional ascent. Unfortunately, Derek celebrated too enthusiastically and ended up kissing his Pilates instructor—a twenty-seven-year-old with a body in perfect condition and the stamina of a racehorse—in the laundry room.

  The timing was catastrophic. The room had a window. And if it weren't for another couple sneaking in to betray their own marriage vows, the whole thing might have gone unwitnessed.

  Now Valentina hadn't done anything yet, which put Derek in a state of social superposition. Until she decided to either crucify him publicly or pretend it never happened, he existed simultaneously in safety and in hell. Schr?dinger's philanderer.

  "Oh, you would surely know about bigger sins."

  Diana sent the remark with a drop of poison, but she was allowed. Diana was Jessica's oldest friend—they had met at the first firm Jessica worked at after college and shared a cramped apartment for two years. Those intimate roommate moments, when they were both broke and full of hope and cheap wine, had forged a bond that permitted this kind of sharpness. Diana had seen Jessica cry over Thomas. Diana had held her hair back after too many vodka sodas. Diana knew things.

  Besides, lounging by the pool, sunbathing, drinking mimosas in swimwear—this was the most intimate setting possible in Beautiful Falls. The usual decorum and coded language could be discarded here. This was where true kinship lived, or at least the closest approximation these women could manage.

  The five of them—Jessica, Bianca, Karina, Diana, and Mehan—lay arranged around a pool so absurd it went from one foot to twelve feet in depth, their bodies glazed with sunscreen and their blood warm with champagne. The afternoon sun pressed down on them, heavy and golden, and the world shimmered at the edges, blurring the line between honesty and performance.

  "Can you not right now?" Jessica plucked an ice cube from the bucket holding the champagne and flicked it at Diana. It landed on her stomach, and Diana shrieked.

  "I'm just saying," Diana laughed, brushing the ice away, "glass houses and all that."

  "My house is reinforced concrete, thank you very much."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "Is it, though?"

  Jessica held Diana's gaze for a moment longer than necessary, a silent negotiation passing between them. Not here. Not now. Diana raised her mimosa in mock surrender and took a long sip.

  "Anyway," Bianca interjected, sensing the shift in temperature and steering away from it, "I heard Valentina has already called a lawyer. Just for a consultation."

  "That means nothing," Mehan said. "I consulted a lawyer after John forgot our anniversary two years ago. It's just... research."

  The women exchanged glances. This was new information—a crack in Mehan's perfect fa?ade, offered up freely. Perhaps the mimosas were stronger than usual, or perhaps Mehan felt she had purchased enough goodwill with her recent donation to Wharton Academy's science wing to afford a moment of vulnerability.

  "What did the lawyer say?" Karina asked, leaning forward with the eagerness of someone too young to know that some questions shouldn't be asked.

  "That I'd be very comfortable." Mehan smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Hypothetically speaking."

  A silence settled over the group, thick as the humidity. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower hummed. Jessica's Great Danes, Apollo and Artemis, lay panting in the shade of an oak tree, too hot to perform their usual patrol of the property.

  "Well," Jessica said, lifting her glass, "to staying comfortable. However we manage it."

  "To comfort," the others echoed, and they drank.

  Diana set down her glass and stretched, her body long and lean from years of marathon running—a hobby she had picked up after her own divorce, channeling her rage into pavement until she could function again. She was the only divorced woman in the group, which gave her a kind of oracle status. She had seen the other side and survived. The others treated her with a mixture of pity and fascination, like a war veteran at a dinner party.

  "Can I ask something?" Karina said, her voice softer now. "How did you know? When it was really over?"

  Diana considered the question, running a finger along the rim of her glass. "When I realized I was relieved every time he traveled for work. When the house felt lighter without him in it." She paused. "When I started hoping he was cheating, because then I'd have an excuse."

  "Was he?"

  "Cheating?" Diana laughed, a short, bitter sound. "No. He was just boring. Which is almost worse, isn't it? You can't even be properly angry. You just have to admit you made a mistake and move on."

  "I don't believe in mistakes," Bianca said. "Only lessons."

  "That's because you've never made one," Diana replied. "Give it time."

  Bianca opened her mouth to respond, but Jessica cut in. "Bianca's too smart for mistakes. She married for money on the first try. No messy detour through love."

  "Jessica." Bianca's tone carried a warning, but her lips twitched with amusement.

  "What? It's a compliment. You're efficient. I respect it."

  "I love my husband," Bianca said, but the words came out rehearsed, a line from a script she'd memorized long ago.

  "Of course you do," Jessica said. "We all love our husbands."

  Another silence. The sprinklers clicked on somewhere across the vast lawn, a soft rhythmic shushing that filled the void. Mehan reached for the champagne bottle and refilled her glass, then the others', moving around the circle with the attentiveness of a flight attendant.

  "Do you ever think about it, though?" Karina asked. She was looking at Jessica now, her young face open and curious in a way that the others had long since trained out of themselves. "Leaving, I mean. Starting over."

  Jessica felt the question land somewhere in her chest. She thought about Samuel, who was in Singapore this week, or maybe Tokyo—she couldn't remember which. She thought about the children, their schedules color-coded on the kitchen calendar, their lives a logistical puzzle she solved every day. She thought about this house, this pool, this life she had built brick by brick, favor by favor.

  And then she thought about Thomas. The way he had smiled at her in the restaurant, the way he always seemed to see her—not the version she performed for everyone else, but something underneath. Something she wasn't sure still existed.

  "No," she said, the answer coming almost instinctively. "I would never divorce my kids."

  Diana lowered her sunglasses just an inch, peering over the rim. "You mean your husband."

  The correction hung in the humid air for a split second. A glitch in the script.

  "Right," Jessica said, reaching for her glass to cover the pause. "Him too."

  Diana said nothing, but she pulled her sunglasses back up. The point had been made.

  "Besides," Jessica continued, her voice light again, the mask sliding back into place, "where would I go? This is where I belong. These are my people." She gestured at the women around her, the pool, the absurd sprawling lawn. "For better or worse."

  "'Til death do us part," Diana murmured.

  "Something like that."

  Karina's phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen. "Oh my god."

  "What?"

  "Valentina just posted on Instagram." She turned the phone around so the others could see. It was a photo of Valentina and Derek, smiling at the camera, her head resting on his shoulder. The caption read: Date night with my love. Fourteen years and counting. ??

  "The kiss of death," Bianca said.

  "What do you mean?" Mehan asked.

  "Public reconciliation. It's the worst possible sign." Bianca took the phone from Karina and studied the image. "Look at his eyes. He's terrified. And she's smiling like she's already planning the funeral."

  "You think she's going to leave him?"

  "No. I think she's going to destroy him slowly, from the inside." Bianca handed the phone back. "That's what I'd do."

  "Remind me never to cross you," Diana said.

  "You couldn't afford to," Bianca replied, and this time, nobody laughed.

  The sun had begun its slow descent toward the tree line, the light turning amber and soft. Jessica watched the shadows lengthen across the water and felt a familiar restlessness stir beneath her skin. In a few hours, the children would return from their various activities—Luna from her poetry workshop, Louise from violin, Luke from whatever paleontological adventure the summer camp had devised. Samuel would call from Asia, his voice tinny through the international connection, and she would tell him everything was perfect. Because it was. Because it had to be.

  "I should probably start thinking about dinner," she said, not moving.

  "The caterer's coming at six," Diana reminded her. "You don't have to do anything."

  "Right." Jessica had forgotten. She had people for everything now. People to cook, people to clean, people to drive her children and walk her dogs and maintain this elaborate machinery of her life. All she had to do was exist at the center of it, smiling, directing, keeping all the plates spinning.

  It was exhausting. And it was nothing at all.

  "One more drink," Mehan said, holding up the bottle. "Before reality comes back."

  "Reality never left," Diana said. "We're just better at ignoring it."

  But they held out their glasses anyway, and Mehan poured, and for a little while longer, they pretended that this was enough.

  iv

  Saturday morning arrived with the particular silence that expensive houses cultivate—no traffic noise, no neighbors, just birdsong and the distant hum of someone's landscaping crew already at work despite the weekend.

  Jessica padded downstairs in her robe to prepare breakfast for the children. "Prepare," of course, meant overseeing what the caterer had left yesterday and warming it up. She surveyed the spread in the refrigerator: a frittata studded with goat cheese and fresh herbs from Thomas's garden (a gift, delivered by his sous chef on Thursday), a mason jar of chia pudding layered with mango compote and toasted coconut, and a basket of brioche rolls that were somehow still soft despite being a day old. For Luke, there was a separate container of dinosaur-shaped pancakes—a custom request the caterer had fulfilled without comment, because when you paid what Jessica paid, no request warranted comment.

  She set the frittata in the oven to warm and arranged the brioche in a cloth-lined basket. The chia pudding went into three small bowls, each topped with a fresh raspberry. It looked like something from a boutique hotel, which was more or less the aesthetic Jessica had cultivated for her entire life.

  Then she heard it: the thunder of footsteps from upstairs. The hurricane was coming.

  Luna appeared first, as she always did. At eleven, she was the eye of the storm—calm, measured, already dressed in a plain gray t-shirt and leggins, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. No logos. No embellishments. She had inherited her father's analytical mind and her mother's stubbornness, a combination that made her formidable at school and exhausting at home.

  "Morning, Mom," she said, sliding onto a barstool at the kitchen island. She reached for the chia pudding and examined it with the skepticism of a health inspector. "Is this the same one from last week?"

  "It's new. Different caterer."

  Luna took a tentative bite, considered it, and nodded once in approval. This was high praise. She ate methodically, reading something on her tablet between bites—probably the news, because Luna was the kind of child who read the news at eleven and had opinions about monetary policy.

  Louise arrived next, announcing herself before she was visible.

  "Mom, can Addison come over later? She said she could but only if her mom says yes, and her mom always says yes if you text her, so can you text her?"

  Louise was nine going on twenty-five. She swept into the kitchen wearing a pink tennis skirt and a white polo shirt with a small designer logo on the chest—an outfit carefully assembled to look effortless. Her blonde hair was already curled, which meant she had been awake for at least an hour, perfecting herself in the mirror. She kissed Jessica on the cheek—a quick, performative gesture—and immediately began arranging a plate with the precision of a food stylist.

  "We'll see," Jessica said. "You have piano today."

  "I know, but after. Please? I haven't seen her in like three days."

  "You saw her Thursday."

  "That was forever ago."

  Louise had allegedly already cycled through two boyfriends—if you could call them that at nine, which Jessica supposed you could, given that the relationships consisted mainly of holding hands at recess and exchanging notes folded into elaborate shapes. The first, a boy named Declan, had been "dumped" (Louise's word) for being "too immature" (also Louise's word). The second, Marcus, had ended things himself after Louise told him his sneakers were "giving off last season energy." She had not seemed particularly heartbroken.

  "Fine," Jessica relented. "I'll text her mom."

  "Thank you, you're the best." Louise blew her a kiss and settled into her seat, immediately pulling out her phone to document the breakfast for her private Instagram account—an account Jessica monitored closely and which had, somehow, already amassed three hundred followers.

  The final member of the trio arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train.

  "MOM! Apollo ate my Croc!"

  Luke burst into the kitchen, seven years old, barefoot, wearing dinosaur-print pajamas he had refused to change out of. His hair stood up in approximately nine different directions. In his hand, he held a single bright orange Croc, the other presumably lodged in the Great Dane's digestive system.

  "He didn't eat it," Jessica said calmly. "Check under your bed."

  "I did!"

  "Check again."

  Luke glared at her with the righteous indignation only a seven-year-old can muster, then stomped back upstairs. Thirty seconds later, his voice echoed down: "FOUND IT!"

  He returned wearing both Crocs now, their orange clashing magnificently with his green pajamas, and climbed onto the stool next to Luna. Unlike his sisters, Luke didn't bother with greetings or pleasantries. He simply reached across the island, grabbed three brioche rolls, and stuffed half of one into his mouth.

  "Luke, napkin," Jessica said.

  "Napkins are a social construct," he replied, spraying crumbs.

  "Where did you learn that phrase?"

  "Luna."

  Luna didn't look up from her tablet. "I said borders are a social construct. In a geopolitical context."

  "Same thing."

  "It's really not."

  Luke ignored her and turned to Jessica, his eyes brightening. "Mom, did you know that the T-Rex could bite with the force of like six thousand pounds? That's like a car. A whole car, Mom. In its mouth."

  "That's a lot of force," Jessica agreed.

  "It could bite through bone. Just—" He made a crunching sound with his mouth. "Gone."

  "Disgusting," Louise said, not looking up from her phone.

  "You're disgusting," Luke shot back, but without malice. He adored his sisters in the chaotic, uncomplicated way that youngest children often do—constantly annoying them, constantly seeking their approval, devastated when they left for school without saying goodbye.

  He finished his brioche and leaned against Jessica's arm, a brief moment of affection before the energy built up again and he ricocheted off to some other corner of the house. "Can I watch dinosaur videos until piano?"

  "One hour. Then you need to get dressed."

  "These are clothes."

  "Real clothes."

  "These are real. They exist."

  Jessica sighed. "Fine. But you're not meeting the piano teacher in pajamas."

  "Why not? He's coming to our house. We should be comfortable in our house."

  It was hard to argue with his logic. Jessica let it go.

  The piano lessons had been Bianca's idea—or rather, Bianca had mentioned a new instructor who had been mentioned to her by Valentina, who had heard about him from someone else in the endless chain of recommendations that governed life in Beautiful Falls. Apparently, there was a young musician from South America, a graduate of some impossibly competitive conservatory, who had a gift for teaching children. Jessica was skeptical. The neighborhood rarely welcomed newcomers, especially young ones without established family money or connections. How this boy—she imagined he must be a boy, given the descriptions—had gained a foothold here was a mystery she intended to solve.

  At exactly ten o'clock, the doorbell rang.

  The precision was notable. In Beautiful Falls, people arrived fashionably late to everything—five minutes minimum, fifteen if they wanted to make an entrance. Punctuality suggested eagerness, and eagerness suggested need, and need was déclassé. But here was someone arriving exactly on time, as though the social rules didn't apply to him or, more intriguingly, as though he didn't know they existed.

  Jessica went to answer it herself. Behind her, she heard the children scrambling, their curiosity overcoming their carefully cultivated disinterest. They lingered at the edge of the foyer, half-hidden behind the corner, three pairs of eyes peering out like meerkats.

  She opened the door.

  The young man on the porch was not what she expected. He looked almost too young to be an adult—twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, with tan skin and dark short hair. But his clothes told a different story. He wore black wool trousers, clearly tailored, and an immaculate blue polo shirt tucked into a leather belt. The tuck wasn't tight, though; the fabric had just enough drape and give over the waistband to signal awareness of current European trends. It was a small detail, the kind most people wouldn't notice, but Jessica noticed everything.

  His smile, when it came, was disarmingly wide.

  "Mrs. Mier?"

  "Hi, yes."

  "I'm Andre." He extended his hand. His handshake was firm but not aggressive—confident without trying to prove anything. "Glad to meet you."

  "Thank you for coming."

  Jessica stepped aside to let him enter. "Oh, the pleasure is mine," he said, pausing at the threshold. "Are you guys a shoes-on or shoes-off type of house?"

  The question was peculiar. She couldn't imagine anyone in this area being shoes-off, couldn't picture their various instructors and tutors and service providers padding around in socks on the heated marble floors.

  "You can keep them on, no worries."

  "Great." His smile widened. "I think I'm wearing mismatched socks today anyway."

  Jessica blinked. The comment was casual, self-deprecating, entirely out of step with the polished professionalism she had come to expect from anyone who worked in Beautiful Falls. She found herself almost amused.

  "I see the young ladies and mister," Andre said, nodding toward the corner where the children were failing to hide.

  "Yes, yes. Please, come say hi."

  Luna emerged first, because Luna always went first. She walked up to Andre with the seriousness of a diplomat approaching a foreign dignitary and extended her hand.

  Andre didn't shake it standing. Instead, he knelt down, bringing himself to her eye level, and took her hand as though meeting an equal.

  "Hi, I'm Luna."

  "Pleasure to meet you, Luna. I'm Andre."

  Something shifted in Luna's expression—a softening, barely perceptible. She was used to adults who talked down to her, literally and figuratively.

  Louise pushed forward next, never one to be upstaged. She extended her hand with a practiced grace that she had definitely learned from watching too many period dramas.

  "I'm Louise. I've been wanting to learn piano for ages."

  "Ages," Andre repeated, matching her theatrical tone. "Well, we can't waste any more time, then." He shook her hand with mock solemnity. "A pleasure, Louise."

  Louise giggled—actually giggled, which was rare for a girl who had recently informed Jessica that giggling was "for babies."

  Luke hung back, still in his dinosaur pajamas and orange Crocs, watching Andre with the wary assessment of a small predator evaluating a potential threat.

  "And you must be Luke," Andre said.

  "How do you know my name?"

  "Your mom told me. She said you like dinosaurs."

  Luke's eyes narrowed. "Which one's your favorite?"

  It was a test. Jessica had seen him administer it to every new adult who entered his orbit. The wrong answer—something basic, like T-Rex or Triceratops—would mark you as unserious. A non-answer would be worse.

  Andre considered the question with genuine thoughtfulness. "Therizinosaurus."

  Luke's entire demeanor changed. "That one has the huge claws."

  "Like swords. Three feet long."

  "Most people don't know that one."

  "Most people aren't paying attention."

  Luke didn't shake Andre's hand, but he did nod once—a gesture of respect, warrior to warrior. Jessica watched the exchange with something close to wonder. In thirty seconds, this stranger had won over her most difficult child.

  "Well," Andre said, standing, "I think it's best to do this one at a time. Luna, can we start with you?"

  Luna looked at Jessica, who nodded. "Yes," Luna said.

  "Great. I'll see you two in half an hour, then."

  Andre and Luna disappeared down the hall toward the Steinway grand piano room—a space Jessica had insisted on when they built the house, despite the fact that no one in the family played. It had seemed aspirational at the time. Now, perhaps, it would finally serve its purpose.

  Jessica returned to the kitchen with the other two children, who immediately began peppering her with questions.

  "Where is he from?" Louise asked.

  "Is he famous?" Luke added.

  "He seems young. Is he in college still?"

  "Why does he dress like that?"

  "Can he actually play piano, or does he just teach?"

  Jessica held up a hand. "I don't know. Why don't you ask him yourselves during your lessons?"

  The children considered this, then scattered—Louise to her phone, Luke to his dinosaur videos. Jessica poured herself another cup of coffee and settled onto the couch with her own phone, scrolling idly through Instagram while half-listening for sounds from the piano room.

  For a few minutes, there was nothing. Then, faintly, she heard it: a voice. Singing.

  It was Andre, she realized, demonstrating something. The voice was warm and surprisingly good—not professional, exactly, but genuine, unself-conscious. A moment later, the piano joined in, a simple melody at first, then something more complex. And then, underneath it, another voice. Luna. Singing.

  Luna, who refused to sing happy birthday at parties. Luna, who had once told Jessica that singing was "emotionally exhibitionist." Luna was singing.

  Jessica set down her phone and listened.

  Half an hour later, Luna returned to the kitchen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with an enthusiasm Jessica hadn't seen in months.

  "How was it?"

  "Great!" The word burst out of her, uncharacteristically effusive. "Mom, I was already playing. Like, actual music. He taught me a chord, and then another chord, and then we made a song. An actual song."

  "That's wonderful, sweetheart."

  "Louise, you're going to love it. Go, go."

  Louise didn't need to be told twice. She practically sprinted down the hall.

  Thirty minutes later, she returned, equally transformed. "Mom, I think I want to be a professional piano player. And a ballerina. Can you be both?"

  "You can't be both," Luna said. "Piano is a full-time commitment. So is ballet."

  "Then I'll do them part-time."

  "That's not how it works."

  "Fine," Luke said, looking up from his tablet. "I'll be the ballerina. You can have piano."

  "You don't even know what a ballerina is."

  "It's someone who dances. I can dance." He demonstrated by wiggling violently in his seat.

  "That's not dancing, that's a seizure."

  "Luke," Jessica interrupted. "It's your turn."

  He hopped off the stool and disappeared down the hall, Crocs slapping against the marble. A few minutes later, Jessica heard something she didn't expect: laughter. Actual, unrestrained laughter, coming from the piano room. Then what sounded like a YouTube video—some kind of dramatic orchestral music. And then, unmistakably, the opening notes of the Rocky theme.

  Jessica smiled despite herself.

  When the final lesson ended, she gathered the children and walked to the piano room. Andre was sitting at the bench, and Luke was standing beside him, vibrating with barely contained excitement.

  "Mom! Mom, watch!"

  "I'm watching."

  Andre began to play—a rich, complicated harmony that filled the room, his fingers moving with casual expertise. And then Luke, with a concentration Jessica had never seen him display, pressed five keys in sequence. The Rocky theme. He looked at Andre while he played, and Andre nodded along, guiding him through the rhythm with small movements of his head.

  It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even particularly good. But Luke was focused—completely, utterly focused—and when he finished, he looked at Jessica with such pride that she felt something tighten in her chest.

  "That was wonderful," she said. And meant it.

  "They're all naturals," Andre said, standing. "Curious and enthusiastic, which is the most important thing. When they practice, it won't feel like a chore."

  "That's good to hear." Jessica paused, watching him. "Where are you from originally?"

  "Brazil. But I've been living here for eight years now."

  "You seem a bit too young to be living eight years anywhere."

  He laughed—an easy, genuine sound. "Thank you. I just left very young to study." He tilted his head slightly. "Where are you from?"

  The question caught her off guard. First, because he could tell she wasn't from here—most people couldn't anymore, or were too polite to mention it. Second, because he felt comfortable enough to ask.

  "Poland," she said. "But I've been living here a little longer than eight years."

  "Really?" His eyes sparkled with mischief. "You look far too young to be living eight years anywhere."

  Jessica felt her face warm, which was absurd. She was a grown woman, a mother of three, and here she was being charmed by a twenty-something piano teacher. "I've been told I age well."

  "Polish women do." He grinned. "I had a Polish girlfriend once. Learned a couple swear words and flatteries, but that's all."

  "Oh really? Like what?"

  She expected him to fumble, to blush, to demur. Instead, he said, without hesitation: "Kotek, moja mi?o??, przepraszam."

  Jessica laughed, surprised. Kitten, my love, I'm sorry. "Przepraszam is very useful with a Polish girlfriend."

  "Definitely what I used the most."

  The children were watching this exchange with open fascination, their heads swiveling between their mother and this stranger like spectators at a tennis match. Jessica realized she needed to end the conversation before it became something she'd have to explain later.

  "How much do we owe you for the lesson?"

  "Oh, the first one is nothing," Andre said. "Talk with the kids, see if they want to continue. If they do, we can set a regular time, and I'll send you the costs."

  Another unusual arrangement. In Beautiful Falls, everything was transactional, upfront, accounted for. Free was suspicious. But Andre didn't seem suspicious—he seemed genuinely unconcerned with the economics of the situation, as though teaching was the point, not the payment.

  "Very well, then," Jessica said. "I'll text you."

  She walked him to the door. He shook her hand again, that same warm, confident grip, and left.

  The children erupted before the door was fully closed.

  "Can we do it again next week?"

  "I want to learn that song from Frozen—"

  "I'm going to learn the whole Rocky soundtrack—"

  "Mom, he said I have natural rhythm!"

  "He said everyone has natural rhythm, Louise, you're not special—"

  "I am special, Luna, and you're just jealous—"

  The chaos swirled around Jessica, familiar and exhausting and somehow, today, a little bit lighter. She thought about Andre—his easy confidence, his disarming smile, the way he had treated her children like people instead of obligations. She should find out more about him. Where he came from, how he'd landed here, what his story was.

  Maybe at the next lesson, she would ask.

  Around noon, the sound of footsteps on the stairs announced Samuel's descent from the master bedroom. He appeared in the kitchen in a cashmere robe, his salt-and-pepper hair still mussed from sleep, and made a beeline for the espresso machine.

  "What's going on down here?" he asked, pressing buttons. "It sounds like a circus."

  "The children had piano lessons."

  "Piano lessons?" He turned, one eyebrow raised. "Since when do they play piano?"

  "Since this morning, apparently."

  He grunted—a sound that could have meant anything—and waited for the espresso to finish. Then he walked over to Jessica, wrapped one arm around her waist, and kissed her on the temple. It was a gesture of habit more than passion, the kind of affection that came from years of marriage and the mutual understanding that the performance of love was sometimes more important than the feeling of it.

  "Who's the teacher?"

  "A young guy from Brazil. Andre. He came highly recommended."

  "He must be good. I haven't seen them this excited since we got the dogs."

  "He might be good. Or he might just be new." Jessica took a sip of her coffee. "They might have made a friend."

  Samuel made another noncommittal sound and settled onto the couch with his espresso and his tablet, already retreating into the cocoon of emails and market updates that occupied most of his waking hours.

  Jessica watched him for a moment—this man she had built a life with, this man she had chosen—and felt the familiar mixture of affection and distance that had come to define their marriage. He was a good father, in his way. A good provider. He had never betrayed her, never humiliated her, never made her feel small. He was simply... absent. Present in body, absent in spirit. A ghost who paid the bills.

  "I'm thinking of having Thomas over for dinner next week," she said. "He's been wanting to try that new grill."

  Samuel didn't look up. "Sure. Whatever you want."

  Whatever she wanted.

  She wondered, sometimes, what would happen if she told him what she actually wanted. If she said: I want you to look at me the way you look at a quarterly report. I want you to know our children's teachers' names without being told. I want you to ask me a question—a real question—and then listen to the answer.

  But she didn't say any of that. She never did.

  "Great," she said instead. "I'll set it up."

  And the day continued, like all the days before it, beautiful and empty and perfectly arranged.