My eyes slowly opened, the smell of food hitting my nose. And it smelled appetizing.
I stretched. My hand brushed cold silk on the other side. Empty.
Panic spiked. Dream? Am I back at the Vane estate? I thought.
Then I saw the black dress shirt draped over the Eames chair. The rain-streaked view of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Right. Married. Homeless. Penthouse.
I rolled out, my body aching from the stress hangover. I followed the smell.
The living room was blinding. Sunlight smashed through the glass walls.
Kitchen. Open concept. Sloane was at the stove.
Gray sweats. Black tee stretching across shoulders that were too broad for a standard mechanic. She held a spatula like a scalpel.
"You're up," she said. But she didn't turn around.
"You have eyes in the back of your head?" I asked, leaning on the marble island.
"Reflection in the window," she said, flipping eggs. "Coffee's in the pot. Mugs up top."
I poured. Black.
One sip. Holy hell, Sloane actually made it well.
"Oh, wife, this is crazily good," I said, blowing on the steam. "You have amazing taste in beans, but expensive ones."
"Ah, this is the owner's stuff. I'm freeloading it," she lied smoothly and smiled.
Fluffy omelet. Chives. Crispy bacon. Toast cut into geometric precision.
I took a bite; it was practically heaven.
I narrowed my eyes. "Okay, spill. Where did you learn to cook? The Jiffy Lube breakroom?"
She smirked, leaning back with her own mug. "YouTube. I watch a lot of Gordon Ramsay when the shop is dead."
"Liar," I said, stealing a piece of her bacon. "But I'll eat it."
I took another bite. "Aren't you going to ask how it tastes?"
She paused for a second. "I know it tastes good."
"That confident?" I challenged.
"Yeah. After all, look who cooked it," she teased.
"And who is that?" I asked back.
"Your wife, of course," she said, chuckling.
I chuckled.
I ate fast, my brain waking slowly with the amazing smells. I decided to write. I was already good at it, but I wanted it to be my safe zone, like a plot twist that could save the situation. I watched the woman—my wife now—in front of me. She did chores with such focus, facing the stove, her back to me. Still, she got every detail in the room right, as if she knew everything, even while operating in my blind spots.
My brain processed the information, neurons firing fast, and presented me with a name.
Shadow, they said, and yes, it sounded good. I liked the way it sounded. Officially, I decided on my pen name. From now on, my pen name is Shadow.
"I need a favor," I said.
"I've got twenty bucks, remember?"
"Not cash. Tech. Does your 'friend' have a laptop? I need to write."
Sloane paused. Her eyes flicked to the closed double doors down the hall.
"There's a rig in the office," she said slowly. "But... don't touch her files. She's paranoid about privacy."
"I don't care about her crypto wallet," I said, hopping off the stool. "I just need a word processor."
"Password is 1-1-1-1," Sloane called out.
"That's lazy," I said. "The password is lazy."
"Rich people are lazy!" she called back from the kitchen.
I chuckled and moved into the study.
If the living room was a museum, this was mission control. Three curved monitors. A chair that cost more than a car.
I sat. The leather groaned. Nice.
Woke the screen. Password: 1111.
Unlocked.
My fingers hovered. A notification box was fading in the corner.
URGENT: Board Meeting Cancelled - M. Vane waiting for response.
My heart skipped. M. Vane? Marcus?
Why would Sloane's "friend" be emailing my uncle?
I hesitated. The mouse hovered.
Stop, I told myself. Paranoia. This girl is in finance. Everyone in NY finance deals with Vane Corp. It's a coincidence. Plus, this was all in the past. It had nothing to do with me now. The Vanes could drown in a tsunami for all I cared.
Another notification slid over it.
System: firewall_update_complete.log
It disappeared. I threw the thoughts to the back of my head. Whatever, I thought.
Unread messages from my agent Dave greeted me as soon as I opened my account.
Dave: Sienna?? Studio loves the draft but needs changes.
Dave: Vane Media is threatening legal if we don't deliver.
Dave: EARTH TO SIENNA.
I cracked my knuckles. The itch was back. The control.
To: Dave
From: Sienna
Subject: I'm back.
Dave,
Ignore Vane Media. I'm pulling the script. They don't get "The Glass Castle." I'm writing something new under a new pen name: Shadow.
I'm no longer under Vane Media. You've been my agent for years, fielding scripts they never knew about, and I trust you. But every dime I made went into their pockets. I'm practically at zero. I'm writing a highly commercial story to build cash fast. I'll get back to my usual style once I have enough money to survive. I need a big advance. Wire it to this new account. Details soon.
S.
Sent.
Blank document. Cursor blinking.
I typed:
Title: THE MECHANIC'S WIFE
Cheesy? Maybe. The old me would have gagged.
But I wasn't writing for critics anymore. I was writing for rent. The world didn't want tragedy. They wanted a fairytale. They wanted a billionaire heiress who found salvation in a grease pit.
Fine, I thought, smiling. You want a fairytale? I'll give you an addiction.
I typed. The mechanical keyboard sounded like gunfire. I lost time.
"You type loud."
I jumped. Spun the chair.
Sloane. Leaning on the frame. Arms crossed.
She'd changed. Jeans. Fresh black shirt. Boots. She looked... solid.
"I'm writing a bestseller," I said, minimizing the window. "It's going to buy us a castle. Get us out of your friend's hair."
She walked over. Stood behind the chair. I felt her heat. Soap and sandalwood.
She glanced at the screen. "Secret?"
"Top secret," I said. "I'm a writer. That's my confession. You have your secrets. I have mine."
She chuckled. Low rumble.
"You're dangerous, Mrs. Cross."
"Work is calling, I need to go."
"Leaving me here, are you sure about that?"
"Feel free to come with me, watch me all you want for four hours doing mechanical work."
"Um... Go ahead wife, be busy with work, I'll do the same, for the future," I said, cheering for ourselves.
"Sure." Sloane smiled but hesitated. "And the door is not open to outsiders. Exclusive for you and I. Don't open for others, strangers are scary."
"Of course, wife," I said smiling. Strangers, I thought about the word.
She leaned down. Her breath on my skin. I thought she might...