The Talentless Housewife

Daphne didn't doubt her upper hand for a second. *For years, Clara has tiptoed around every little thing Desmond dislikes, no matter how trivial.*

Clara parted her lips to answer, only for Daphne to cut right across her. "Save it. I don't have time to waste on your excuses, and my friend is waiting."

Following the direction of Daphne's brief glance, Clara spotted a woman around the same age seated at a nearby table, watching them with open curiosity.

Before walking off, Daphne leaned in slightly and dropped her voice again. "You've got three days. Hand over the finished design, or Desmond hears every detail about what happened here today."

Not waiting for an answer, she pivoted sharply and walked straight back to her booth.

As soon as Daphne slid into her seat, the woman across from her looked past her toward Clara. "Do you know her, Daphne? Why don't you invite her over to sit with us?"

"Barely. Saying hello was plenty," Daphne replied with a casual wave, making it plain she had zero interest in saying more.

Midway to picking up her purse, Clara's fingers stilled on the strap. *Barely know me? She's built her reputation on designs she took from me ever since college, and now she claims we barely know each other?*

*Then again, it tracks. Desmond never once claimed me publicly as his wife, so why would his sister treat me like family?*

Once, that realization would have stung. Standing here now, she felt nothing at all—only a firm resolve never to waste another shred of effort on people who placed zero value on her.

Without a trace of hesitation, Clara turned and walked out through the café doors. Across from Daphne, however, her friend kept staring through the front window after Clara's retreating figure.

"What is it, Maya?" Daphne asked.

A brief flash of unease crossed her mind. *Did Clara blab to outsiders about her hidden marriage to Desmond? If word ever got out that my brother's wife is some deadbeat housewife and pathetic fool who chases men around, our entire family would become a laughingstock.*

Maya Lawson blinked and pulled her attention back across the table. "Nothing major. Only, the man sitting with her earlier looked an awful lot like Lucas Adler, the CEO of Aurelia Group."

Relieved it had nothing to do with Desmond, Daphne eased back against her chair. "Aurelia Group?" Even she recognized the firm; despite being fairly young, its unmistakable creative style had already earned serious respect across the design industry.

*What business would Aurelia Group's chief executive ever have with someone like Clara? What could he possibly see in her?* Daphne dismissed the idea outright.

"Not a chance, Maya—your eyes must have played tricks on you," Daphne stated flatly. "We aren't close, sure, yet I know for a fact she's just an idle housewife who holds her hand out for cash and doesn't have an ounce of talent. Why would an executive at his level look twice at her? Even a beggar on the street corner would turn their nose up at her."

*At least beggars put in the effort to earn spare change,* Daphne thought with a mental sneer. *Clara lounges around a house full of staff playing the pampered wife—every dollar spent on her goes straight down the drain.*

Seeing how adamant Daphne was, Maya let the subject drop. *Maybe the lighting threw me off,* she told herself. *He probably just happened to resemble Lucas Adler.*

*****

Out of sheer ingrained habit, Clara stopped by a supermarket on the drive back to her place. Once inside her kitchen, she set the oven to preheat and rinsed fresh vegetables at the sink.

Halfway through chopping them on the cutting board, she abruptly realized every single ingredient she had picked out catered to Desmond and Hazel. Not one item was meant for herself.

Her knife stopped mid-slice. After staring down at the chopped pile for several quiet seconds, she shoved the vegetables aside and rummaged through the pantry for chili peppers. Behind her, the oven stood fully preheated, yet all desire to cook had vanished.

*****

Nine o'clock had already passed by the time Desmond brought Hazel home to Mercer Villa in Crest Hill Estates.

The warm amber porch lamp that normally greeted them stood dark, and the living room lay steeped in such deep silence that only the steady tick of the wall clock reached their ears.

Creasing his brow, Desmond looked at the housekeeper hurrying into the foyer. "Martha, is Clara still not back?" His low voice carried a sharp edge of impatience.

"No, sir, not yet," Martha answered, twisting the corner of her apron in flustered hands, clearly caught off guard after rushing out to meet them and unsure what else to say.

Beside him, Hazel curled her small fingers tight around her backpack straps. *Mom always waits by the door at this hour to hug me and Dad and ask if I missed her at kindergarten. Instead she insisted on working these past few days, and nobody even baked my strawberry cake.*

Pressing her lips together as a tangled knot of frustration tightened inside her, Hazel complained aloud. "Mom is being so silly. She could stay right here at home living an easy life—why does she insist on working? She's nothing like Ms. Monroe anyway. She can't pull off any of those impressive things, so why won't she quit trying to compete?"

At first, having her mother out of the house had felt thrilling. With nobody hovering around to nag her, she could eat whatever snacks she craved and stay awake as late as she pleased, enjoying total freedom.

Yet after two days of rich, heavy meals, all she wanted tonight was a warm bowl of her mom's gentle oatmeal. Before, it used to show up on the table without her ever asking; now that it was gone, a heavy, nagging emptiness settled in her chest.

Dialing her mother crossed her mind, only for stubborn pride to stop her. *What if she assumes I can't get by without her and comes home acting even stricter?* Turning it over in her head, Hazel pinned her hopes on her father instead.

"Dad, will you call Mom and tell her to come home and make oatmeal for me?" she pleaded. *Mom listens to Dad more than anyone—if he asks, she'll come right back for sure.*

"Call her yourself," Desmond tossed back, already heading up the stairs without sparing a single glance behind him as his footsteps faded past the upper landing.

Hazel stuck out her lower lip, still wanting her mom's oatmeal. Spotting Martha tidying up nearby, a sudden idea clicked, and she marched right over. "Martha, call Mom and tell her Dad wants her to come home and cook."

Rising onto her tiptoes to look intimidating, Hazel made Martha's hands tremble against her apron. With bouncy curls pinned behind a strawberry clip, dewy bright eyes, and long lashes brushing rosy cheeks, the little girl looked sweet as a doll at first glance—yet once she planted both hands on her hips and used that bossy tone, every bit of cuteness vanished.

"Are you deaf, Martha?" She stamped her foot hard enough to set the tiny pearls on her princess dress rattling. "Call her right now, or I'll tell Dad to fire you!" Her voice rang with practiced entitlement.

Letting out a quiet, weary sigh, Martha hesitated a beat before pulling out her phone, tapping the screen a few times, and lifting it to her ear to wait for Clara to pick up.

*****

Back at her desk, Clara was reviewing the recent project designs from Aurelia Group that Lucas had just sent over when her phone began ringing. Seeing Martha's name flash across the screen caught her slightly by surprise.

"Mrs. Mercer," Martha's voice came through hesitantly on the line. "Miss Hazel has been asking for your oatmeal. Would there be any chance you could come back to make some for her?"