Chương 8
Then Leo started crying.
Both of us stood at the same time.
My mother laughed softly.
“Still competitive.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You both moved before thinking.”
I smiled despite myself.
For a few minutes, we focused only on Leo.
The bottle.
The blanket.
The tiny complaints of a newborn who had no idea adults were struggling around him.
It was the most normal moment I had experienced in days.
And maybe that was why it mattered.
Later that evening, Dominic sent another message.
I need to talk to you.
I stared at it.
Then another appeared.
Not about the SUV.
Not about the documents.
About us.
I almost ignored it.
Then a third message arrived.
I found out my mother lied to me.
I froze.
The timing felt impossible.
I called him.
He answered immediately.
“What happened?”
His voice sounded different.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Shaken.
“What do you mean your mother lied to you?”
There was a pause.
“She knew.”
“Knew what?”
“About your father.”
I sat down slowly.
“What?”
“She knew who he was.”
The apartment became silent.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dominic.”
“I found emails.”
My heart started beating faster.
“What emails?”
“Between my mother and someone connected to her.”
I waited.
“She knew your father wasn’t just retired.”
I closed my eyes.
A new piece moved into place.
Not everything.
Not enough.
But something.
“What did she do with that information?”
Dominic did not answer.
And the silence told me he already knew.
“Audrey,” he said quietly.
“Yes?”
“I think my mother knew exactly who you were before I married you.”
“I think my mother knew exactly who you were before I married you.”
The sentence stayed between us.
I did not know what to say.
Not because I was shocked.
Because somewhere deep inside, a small part of me had already wondered.
The question was not whether Victoria had known.
The question was why.
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
Dominic exhaled.
“I found emails.”
“Between who?”
“My mother and one of her friends.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I know.”
His voice sounded tired.
Actually tired.
Not irritated.
Not impatient.
Just tired.
“She was asking questions about your family before we got engaged.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
“What kind of questions?”
“Your father’s background.”
“Where you grew up.”
“Your finances.”
I closed my eyes.
The last one bothered me most.
Not because my finances were a secret.
Because of the way Dominic said it.
As if the answer had been important.
As if I was a file to be reviewed.
“Did she tell you?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
A long pause.
“No.”
That answer mattered.
Because it was the first time Dominic admitted something without immediately protecting himself.
I sat back down.
“Why didn’t you ask?”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “Because I didn’t want to know.”
The honesty surprised me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I liked believing I built everything myself.”
I said nothing.
“I liked being the person people respected.”
His voice became lower.
“And I knew your family probably had more influence than you admitted.”
I looked at the phone.
“So you suspected?”
“Yes.”
“But you never asked me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
This one lasted longer.
“Because I was afraid of the answer.”
I frowned.
“Afraid?”
“Yes.”
The word sounded strange coming from him.
Dominic rarely admitted fear.
He usually disguised it as confidence.
As certainty.
As control.
“If you told me your father was someone important,” he continued, “I would have wondered whether I earned my place with you.”
I looked down.
“And if I told you he wasn’t?”
“I would have believed I did.”
The simplicity of the answer bothered me.
Because it revealed something I had missed.
Dominic’s insecurity had always been there.
I had mistaken it for ambition.
I had mistaken his need to prove himself for confidence.
“Your mother knew,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And she still let you believe my family was ordinary.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He did not answer.
That silence told me more than words would have.
“Dominic.”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“No.”
His voice tightened.
“I really don’t.”
I believed that.
And somehow, that made everything more complicated.
Because for the first time, the problem was not only Dominic.
It was the people around him.
The expectations.
The image.
The family that seemed to measure everything by status.
“What did your mother want?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
He was silent.
Then he said, “She always liked talking about connections.”
I waited.
“She would ask about your father’s work.”
“What did she say?”
“That it was interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Yes.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s all?”
“She never said anything directly.”
That sounded exactly like Victoria.
Someone who rarely left fingerprints.
Someone who preferred suggestions over statements.
I thought about the garage records.
The vehicle documents.
The questions about paperwork.
“Did she ever go through our things?”
Dominic hesitated.
“Audrey.”
“What?”
“I need to tell you something.”
My body tensed.
“What?”
“Two weeks before the wedding, my mother asked me for copies of some documents.”
“What documents?”
“Your information.”
The room went still.
“What information?”
“Your address.”
“Employment records.”
“Family details.”
I felt cold.
“Why?”
“She said she was helping with wedding planning.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was unbelievable.
“And you gave them to her?”
“I didn’t think anything of it.”
There it was.
The sentence that had caused so many problems.
I didn’t think anything of it.
Not cruel.
Not malicious.
Just careless.
Carelessness had become its own kind of damage.
“Dominic.”
“I know.”
“No.”
My voice sharpened.
“You don’t.”
He became quiet.
“You keep saying you know because you feel bad now.”
I looked around the room.
“At the time, you trusted your mother more than you respected my privacy.”
Silence.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
May you like
That was the difficult part.
“I know you didn’t wake up planning to destroy my trust.”
