The weeks that followed moved in rhythms Marcus hadn’t experienced since before Sarah’s diagnosis. Catherine started appearing at the house in southeast Portland with increasing frequency, slipping into their routines like she’d always been there. The modest three-bedroom with its scuffed hardwood floors and perpetually cluttered kitchen became something different when she walked through the door.

Not just a place where Marcus and Danny survived, but somewhere they were learning to live again. She showed up on a Tuesday evening with grocery bags, and announced she was making dinner. Danny immediately appointed himself sous chef, dragging a step stool to the counter, while Marcus watched from the doorway, caught between amusement and apprehension.

The smoke alarm went off 17 minutes later. Catherine stood before the stove, wooden spoon raised like a weapon, staring at the pan of what had been intended as marinara sauce, but now resembled volcanic ash. Smoke billowed toward the ceiling, while Danny collapsed against the refrigerator, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

I genuinely did not know tomatoes could become charcoal. Catherine’s voice carried bewilderment rather than embarrassment. That seems like something someone should have mentioned. Marcus grabbed a dish towel, waving it at the shrieking detector while trying not to laugh. Danny had given up entirely, sliding down the fridge to sit on the floor, tears streaming.

“Pizza?” the kid managed between gasps. Catherine looked at the ruined pan, then at Danny’s delighted face, then at Marcus still battling the smoke alarm. Something shifted in her expression, wonder almost at the simple chaos of a kitchen disaster. “Pizza,” she agreed, and her smile carried more genuine happiness than Marcus had ever seen at the penthouse.

They ordered from the place Danny liked, the one that put too much cheese on everything. Catherine sat cross-legged on the living room floor, slice in hand, while Danny explained his latest theory about wormholes. She listened with the focused intensity Marcus had come to recognize, asking questions that showed she’d actually absorbed everything he’d said before.

This version of her, flour still dusted in her hair from the bread she tried making last weekend, comfortable in borrowed sweats because she’d forgotten to bring change of clothes, felt more real than the polished woman in the penthouse. Like someone finally inhabiting their own skin. The cooking lessons became ritual.

Every Sunday Catherine and Danny attempted something new while Marcus supervised from the kitchen table, ready to intervene if flames became involved. Spaghetti carbonara ended with eggs scrambled into pasta. Cookies emerged from the oven either raw in the center or burnt on the edges, never both cooked correctly.

A misguided attempt at homemade bread produced something closer to a brick than food. But Danny didn’t care about results. He cared about Catherine’s attention, the way she treated his suggestions seriously, how she high-fived him after every disaster like they’d accomplished something magnificent together. Neighbors started noticing.

Miss Chen mentioned seeing Catherine’s car parked overnight. Tommy Briggs raised an eyebrow when Marcus mentioned her during a job, but said nothing beyond a knowing grunt. The Rodriguez family three doors down invited all three of them to their daughter’s quinceañera. Catherine went stiff when Marcus relayed the invitation.

Social events with strangers, expectations she didn’t know how to meet, the risk of being recognized. “They don’t know who I am,” she said carefully. “What if someone figures it out?” “Then they figure it out,” Marcus shrugged. “The Rodriguezes care about whether you’re nice to their kid, not what your bank account looks like.

” She went, wore a simple dress from Target that Danny had helped pick out. Spent most of the party in the corner with the younger kids, teaching them a clapping game she’d learned at boarding school. When Maria Rodriguez sought her out specifically to thank her for entertaining the little ones, Catherine’s expression flickered through confusion before settling into something that might have been gratitude.

“No one asked about my family,” she told Marcus on the drive home, Danny asleep in the backseat. “No one wanted anything from me. They just they were just nice.” The wonder in her voice broke something in Marcus’s chest. This woman worth billions had never experienced a neighborhood party where people were simply kind because kindness was the point.

Marcus got his first taste of her world at a charity gala she couldn’t avoid. Something about board obligations, appearances that had to be maintained to protect certain business interests. She looked ill when she mentioned it, but insisted he come. He rented a tuxedo that didn’t quite fit, felt like an impostor from the moment the valet looked at his truck with barely concealed disdain.

The venue was a converted warehouse in the Pearl District, all exposed brick and designer lighting, packed with people who moved through the space like they owned it because most of them probably did. Catherine stayed close, her hand on his arm, navigating the crowd with practiced ease. But Marcus watched her face and saw the performance.

The smile that never reached her eyes, the laugh calibrated to appropriate warmth, the way she deflected personal questions with the skill of someone who’d been doing it since childhood. This wasn’t living. This was surviving in designer clothing. A man approached them near the bar, older, silver-haired, with the kind of tan that came from winters in places Marcus couldn’t afford to imagine.

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