Chapter 2The Man Who Bought My Scraps

"Mommy, why can we see right through the jellyfish?"

Inside the subterranean chill of the aquarium, Finn stood with his nose pressed against the acrylic barrier, watching the translucent bells drift through the indigo light.

I rested a hand on his small shoulder. "Because they need to hide in plain sight. If they don’t blend into the dark, the bigger fish swallow them whole."

We stayed in that pavilion for four hours.

We wandered until the closing chimes echoed through the high ceilings, until the security guards politely cleared the corridors. Warren never came. His promise of "thirty minutes" had evaporated into another empty line of credit.

I held Finn’s sticky hand as we stepped out into the evening storm. A downpour had swallowed the city skyline. I flagged an Uber, guided my exhausted son into the backseat, and took him home.

Finn was asleep before his head fully hit the pillow.

I sat on the living room sofa in the dark, watching the digital numbers on the wall clock flip past 1:00 AM.

The front lock turned. Warren slipped inside, trailing a blast of autumn air and the cloying scent of cheap vanilla perfume.

When he saw me sitting in the shadows, he stopped dead, then crossed the room with hurried, heavy strides.

"Willa, I’m so sorry. I couldn't break away." He sank onto the ottoman across from me, burying his face in his palms. "The guy was an extortionist. He wouldn't let her leave. Lacey was trembling so violently she couldn't sign the police report. I had to take her to the precinct, and then her wrist was swelling, so I drove her to Northwestern Memorial for X-rays..."

I looked down at his lapel. A single, bleached-blonde strand of hair clung to the dark wool.

"Did she break it?" I asked.

Warren’s breath hitched. His eyes darted away. "A deep soft-tissue contusion. The doctor said she needs bed rest for a few days."

I nodded, standing up to smooth the fabric of my sweater. "Understood. Go get some sleep."

He lunged forward, catching my wrist. His grip was clammy, vibrating with panic. "Willa, don’t do this. Scream at me. Throw something. Break a plate. This silence—it’s killing me. Let me make it up to you. Next weekend. I swear, next weekend we’ll do the entire day over."

I peeled his fingers off my skin, one by one.

"There’s no need. Finn has already seen the jellyfish."

The next morning, Maren let herself in, carrying two brown paper bags of artisanal groceries. She watched me quietly scrape dried acrylic from a glass palette, her eyebrows drawing into a hard line.

"Did that bastard come home last night?"

"One in the morning," I said, tossing a soiled rag into the bin.

Maren slammed a package of sea bass onto the marble island. "I don’t get it. What kind of masterclass in manipulation is this little secretary running? And how is Warren falling for it? You are Willa Stone. Men used to line up around the block just to buy you a drink at the Arts Club, and now you’re playing live-in maid to an emotional deadbeat?"

My hands paused over the sink. "Maren. Finn needs a father."

Maren sighed, looking at me with equal parts fury and grief. "You’re lying to yourself, Willa. A ghost isn’t a father. You’re raising that boy alone anyway."

Before I could answer, Warren’s name flashed across my phone screen.

"Willa," his voice was brimming with eager, artificial cheer. "I’m leaving the office at five. I’m picking up that duck confit you love from the French bistro on Michigan Avenue. Let’s have a real family dinner tonight."

He sounded like a man scrambling to rebuild a house after setting it on fire. I glanced at Maren.

"All right," I told him.

At six-thirty, Warren walked through the door carrying insulated takeout bags and fresh sourdough. He shed his suit jacket, changed into an old cable-knit sweater, and even helped Finn scrub his hands at the sink.

For thirty minutes, the kitchen felt almost normal.

Warren carved the duck, placing the crispiest cut onto Finn’s plate before spooning a portion of wild rice into my bowl.

"Willa, about the gallery show... I was an idiot," he said softly, watching me across the candlelit table. "I’ve already contacted the curator at the River North collective. I’m funding a private re-opening next month. Just for you."

He leaned forward, desperate for a nod, a smile, a pardon.

I looked at the food, my fork hovering.

Then his phone began to vibrate against the wood.

The buzz was loud, discordant, ripping the delicate fabric of the room to shreds.

"Lacey."

Warren’s hand hovered mid-air. He looked at the caller ID, then glanced up at me, his face turning gray.

"Aren’t you going to answer?" I set my fork down.

He swallowed, his fingers trembling as he tapped the screen.

"Mr. Conway... I’m so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but... the apartment above mine had a pipe burst," Lacey’s voice wailed through the receiver, high-pitched and hysterical. "Water is pouring through the ceiling. My laptop, the Q4 forecast binders... everything is soaking wet. The building super isn't answering. I don't know anyone in this city... what am I supposed to do?"

Warren shot up from his chair, sending his water goblet crashing to the floor. Ice water spilled over the edge, pooling around his socks.

"Willa, she has the company's master financial models on that machine. If those drives are destroyed, we lose the Q4 accounts. I have to go."

He didn't wait for my response. He was already pulling on his overcoat at the entryway.

"Go ahead," I said from the dining table. My voice was entirely devoid of inflection. "Just know that if you walk out that door, this entire dinner goes into the garbage."

Warren paused, one boot halfway on. He turned back, his face darkening with sudden resentment.

"Willa, why do you have to be so incredibly petty?" he snapped. "She’s a kid trying to survive in a cutthroat city. She’s about to be flooded out of her home. As her employer, am I supposed to just leave her out on the street? This affects the firm’s bottom line. Could you show an ounce of empathy?"

I looked at his flushed, righteous face. A strange, cold clarity washed over me.

"Of course," I said gently. "Watch out for the ice on the road."

The door slammed shut.

Finn sat frozen in his chair, a piece of roast duck forgotten in his mouth, his eyes wide and dark.

I stood up, walked over, picked up the hot platter of duck confit, and tipped it directly into the trash bin beneath the counter.

"Mommy... I’m not hungry anymore," Finn whispered, his chin trembling.

I kissed the crown of his head. "That's okay, sweetheart. Tomorrow, Mommy will make us something better."