Chapter 4
By Monday morning, the panic in the Miller household had escalated from mild annoyance to full-scale operational paralysis. Because I had kept my phone off, Connor and Barbara had no idea where I was, which meant their meticulously oiled domestic machine had completely seized up.
I spent the morning at a local café down the street from Maya’s apartment, sipping iced Americanos and casually reorganizing my freelance portfolio. For the first time in six years, I didn't have to check my watch every twenty minutes to make sure I was home in time to prep dinner, pick up dry cleaning, or coordinate Barbara’s weekly bridge club snacks.
Around eleven o'clock, I decided to check my secondary, rarely used email address—the one connected to my emergency cloud storage and legal documents. Sitting in the inbox was an email from a mutual friend, Sarah, who lived two doors down from us in Ecopark.
“Hey Clara, are you okay? Your mother-in-law came over to my house this morning looking frantic because you weren't answering your phone. She said you threw some kind of dramatic tantrum and walked out on Sunday night, and now Connor can't find his passport for his business trip to Singapore tomorrow. Is everything alright? Let me know if you need to crash somewhere.”
I stared at the screen, a slow, vindictive smile spreading across my face.
Connor’s Singapore trip. How could I have forgotten? For three weeks, I had been the one organizing his itinerary, cross-referencing flight times, printing out his hotel reservations, and packing his tailored business suits in his compression garment bags. He was scheduled to fly out Tuesday evening at eight o'cloc—less than thirty-six hours away. And his passport?
It was locked securely in the fireproof safe in our bedroom closet.
And the combination to that safe? Only I knew it. Connor had forgotten it six months ago and never bothered to reset it because he knew I would always open it for him whenever he needed his documents.
"Maya," I said, calling out toward the living room where my sister was folding laundry. "Do you remember when Connor bought that expensive fireproof safe?"
Maya walked into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Vividly. He acted like he was guarding the Crown Jewels while storing three expired passports and a stack of car titles. Why?"
"He leaves for Singapore tomorrow night," I said smoothly. "And his passport is locked inside."
Maya let out a short, bark-like laugh that drew the attention of a couple sitting at the next table. "Oh, you are evil. I love it. What are you going to do?"
"Nothing," I replied, taking a slow sip of my coffee. "Absolutely nothing. Let's see how well Connor navigates international corporate travel when he has to pack his own suitcase and figure out what a combination lock is."
We didn't have to wait long for the consequences of my inaction to ripple outward. By late Monday afternoon, my phone was finally turned back on—not because I wanted to talk to them, but because I needed to monitor my business inquiries. Within thirty seconds of connecting to the cellular network, the screen erupted in a literal waterfall of notifications.
Fourteen missed calls from Connor.
Six text messages from Barbara demanding I return immediately.
An angry voice note from Chloe accusing me of "ruining the family dynamic just for attention."
And then, a text from Connor that stopped me dead in my tracks. It wasn't angry. It was desperate.
“Clara, please. Mom is driving me crazy, I can't find my passport, my presentation slides are on your laptop, and I don't even know where my grey suit is. Just come home. I’ll tell Mom to apologize. Please.”
May you like
I stared at the glowing screen, reading the words over and over again. He wasn't apologizing for what his mother had said. He wasn't acknowledging the years of emotional labor I had poured into keeping his life frictionless. He was simply bargaining for the return of his personal servant.
With steady fingers, I tapped out a single sentence, hit send, and blocked his number.
