In my seventh year of being Christian’s live-in, unpaid housekeeper, our cat went missing. I tore the house apart, checking every single corner, my eyes stinging with hot, angry tears as I finally reached for my phone to call the police. Christian snatched the phone right out of my hand and hung up. “I took him,” he said, not even looking up from his tablet. “Amber wanted a cat. She saw a picture of Barnaby and had to have him.” “He’s just a pet, Rachel. You can always get another one.” I stood frozen, staring at the empty ceramic bowl in the corner of the kitchen. During all those late nights when Christian was out with Amber, Barnaby was the only one waiting by the front door for me to come home. For seven years, that little creature was the only thing in this hollow house that actually needed me. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the hem of Christian’s jacket, practically begging. “Barnaby only eats the food I prepare for him. He won’t adjust to a new place. Please, Christian.” Christian let out a soft, dismissive scoff and turned his phone screen toward me, hitting play. On the screen, the cat who usually hissed at strangers was curled up in Amber’s lap, purring so loudly the microphone picked it up. “Rachel,” Christian said, his voice flat, cutting. “Do you always have to make yourself out to be so indispensable?” All the energy drained from my limbs, and I collapsed onto the cold hardwood floor. He was right, of course. No one is truly irreplaceable. Cats are like that. People are even worse. Maybe it was finally time for me to start living my own life. 1 The shrill ring of my alarm shattered the silence of the empty bedroom. My phone was cluttered with thirty different alarms. Five of them were dedicated to Barnaby—reminding me of his feeding schedule, his supplements, and his vet appointments. The rest of them revolved entirely around Christian. “Iron his suits. Start dinner. Take his Mercedes for a tune-up.” An endless, repetitive loop of service. I swiped my thumb across the screen. One by one, I deleted them. Every single one. I wouldn’t be needing them anymore. Supporting myself against the edge of the coffee table, I pushed myself up from the floor. Christian had been gone for hours. Only the slight indentation in the leather cushion of the sofa remained as proof he had ever been here. Just a few hours ago, he had sat right there, casually scrolling through financial news. He had watched me—frantic, sweating, pouring over every closet and cupboard—searching for a cat he had already packed up and given away. Maybe he found it amusing. Maybe that was why he kept his mouth shut, letting me play the fool. A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my stomach. Today was our seventh anniversary. I had spent the entire afternoon preparing a dinner filled with his favorite dishes. Now, those plates sat untouched on the dining table, the grease congealing into a dull, white glaze. I picked up the plates, one by one, and scraped the cold food down the garbage disposal. There was a time when Christian refused to eat anything unless I made it. Seven years ago, his most trusted business partner had spiked his food. It ended in a frantic rush to the ER, a painful gastric lavage, and hands so swollen from IV drips and nutrient lines that he couldn’t even hold a fork. After that trauma, he developed a deep, borderline paranoid aversion to restaurant food. So, I was the one who brought him homemade lunches in neat little containers. I would take the first bite to show him it was safe, then feed him the next. Back then, Christian would lean into my touch, looking at me with soft, vulnerable eyes. “Rachel, what would I do without you? I’d literally starve.” To take care of him, I walked away from my residency at the hospital. Three meals a day, rain or shine, I delivered his food. I did that for seven years. Until Amber arrived. She was the new junior executive assistant in his office. The day I walked in without knocking, she was sitting on the edge of his mahogany desk, holding a forkful of some charred, unrecognizable takeout, hovering it near his mouth. Christian didn’t even flinch. He just leaned in and swallowed it. “So, Christian, how does my cooking stack up against your girlfriend’s?” Amber had giggled. He raised an eyebrow, a lazy smirk on his lips. “Give her some credit, Amber. Cooking is pretty much the only thing she knows how to do.” It was only after their shared laughter died down that they finally noticed me standing in the doorway. He casually took the lunchbox from my hands. He took one bite of the roasted chicken I had spent two hours preparing, then spit it out into his napkin. He frowned, complaining about the seasoning. “Too bland. Too greasy. The meat is like leather.” And with every critique he threw my way, Amber let out a soft, synchronized titter. As it turned out, the betrayal of a pet was nothing compared to the betrayal of a partner. I plunged my hands into the soapy sink, mechanically scrubbing the grease off the ceramic plates. Over and over, until my skin went raw. My lips twitched. I wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all, but my eyes burned with a heavy, throbbing ache. These hands, which had once been trained to hold a scalpel with absolute precision, had become permanently wrinkled and smelled of dish soap. I let myself slide down the kitchen cabinets, pulling my knees to my chest. The screen of my phone lit up on the counter. It was a text from a medical recruiter. “Dr. Evans, we’d really love for you to reconsider. The department would be incredibly lucky to have you.” The offer had come in a month ago. I had agonized over it for an entire week before ultimately turning it down. My reasoning back then felt utterly pathetic now: “If I take this, who will cook for Christian? He’ll starve.” But there was nothing holding me back anymore. I typed out a single word: “Yes.” I locked the screen. In the quiet darkness of the kitchen, I whispered to myself, “Christian, I was never as useless as you made me believe.” 2 Late that night, the front door clicked open, followed by heavy, stumbling footsteps downstairs. A moment later, Christian slid into bed, smelling strongly of scotch and expensive cigars. He pressed his chest against my back. “The house is a mess, Rachel. Why didn’t you clean up?” I kept my back to him, refusing to answer. The sheets rustled as his hands slid under the duvet, tracing a warm, heavy path up my waist. “Still sulking?” he murmured, his breath hot against my neck. “I told you, it’s just a cat. If you want, I’ll have a local breeder bring over a litter tomorrow and you can pick whichever one you like.” I bit my lower lip, staring hard at the dark wall. Suddenly, a cold metal weight settled against the bare skin of my collarbone. I looked down to find a delicate diamond necklace draped over my chest. He let out a low chuckle. “Happy seventh anniversary. See? I didn’t forget.” But I had seen this exact necklace just a few hours ago on Amber’s social media. She had posted a picture of it with the caption: “What do you do when a gift is super ugly? Will he be mad if I return it? Seriously, who actually wears such outdated stuff anymore?” So, it was a hand-me-down. A discarded consolation prize. I reached up, ripped the necklace off, and flung it back at him. “I don’t like it. I don’t want it.” Christian’s face darkened instantly. He grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “You’ll take it and like it. When did you become so demanding?” He was too close. The strong, cloying scent of cheap, sweet perfume clinging to his collar hit my nose, and my stomach violently rebelled. Before I could stop myself, I dry-heaved and threw up all over his chest. Christian stared down at his ruined silk shirt in disbelief. He looked up, his eyes cold and disgusted. “Look at yourself, Rachel,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re acting like a crazy woman.” The roar of his car engine echoed from the driveway. He was gone. I pulled the duvet over my head and, for the first time in seven years, slept peacefully. No waking up at dawn to press his shirts. No preparing a multi-course breakfast. No middle-of-the-night feedings for a cat that wasn’t there. I lingered in bed, enjoying the stillness. Then, the phone rang. Christian’s voice cut through the receiver, sharp and authoritative. “Since you’re so desperate to see Barnaby, go over to Amber’s place. She hates scooping the litter box anyway. Go clean it out for her.” I looked at the open suitcase on my bedroom floor, still waiting to be packed. “I’m busy,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I don’t have time.” On the other end of the line, he let out a dry laugh. “Busy? You? Rachel, you don’t even have a job. What could you possibly be busy with? I pay for the roof over your head and everything you eat, and you can’t even do this one small thing for me?” My grip tightened around the phone. A crushing sense of exhaustion settled deep into my chest. Seven years of devotion. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he literally didn’t see me. I was invisible to him, a utility that came with the house. I hung up on him. But in the end, I went anyway. Just once, I wanted to see if Barnaby was doing okay without me. The moment I arrived at the luxury high-rise apartment, a housekeeper stopped me at the foyer. “Oh, you must be the girl he hired to clean up after the cat,” she said, tossing a pair of blue disposable shoe covers at my feet. “Put those on before you walk in. And don’t touch anything belonging to Ms. Amber.” I stared down at the thin plastic shoe covers, my hands clenching into fists. “A girl hired to clean up.” So that was how Christian introduced me to his world. A maid. Amber’s apartment was spacious and immaculate. Christian had spared no expense, apparently. He had hired a full roster of staff for her—one maid for deep cleaning, another specifically to meal prep. He had rented the place for her, too. “She’s a young girl trying to build a career,” he had justified when I noticed the charge on his account statement. “How is she supposed to focus on work if she’s bogged down by household chores?” Yet, when I had approached him months ago, my back aching from scrubbing our four-bedroom house, and asked, “Can we hire a service? The house is just too big for me to manage alone,” he had scoffed. “Are you really telling me you can’t even handle a simple house?” I found Barnaby locked in a small wire crate in the laundry room. He was huddled in the far corner, and when he saw me, he hissed. It had only been twenty-four hours, but he looked at me like I was a complete stranger. “Barnaby, sweetie, come here,” I cooed, reaching out my hand the way I always did. He lunged forward, his sharp claws digging deep into the flesh of my forearm. I gasped, pulling my arm back as beads of blood welled up on my skin. I dropped the bag of treats I had brought. Suddenly, a strange wave of peace washed over me. He had only relied on me because I was his only option. Now that he had a luxurious apartment and a new owner, he didn’t need me anymore. Just as I stepped out of the lobby, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was Christian’s mother. “Rachel, Christian’s father is having an episode. You need to get over here right now.” 3 Over the years, I hadn’t just been Christian’s live-in maid. I had also served as his family’s on-call physician. Clutching my bleeding arm, I rushed over to his parents’ estate. But when I arrived, I found his father sitting comfortably on the back patio, drinking iced tea and playing chess with several other elderly guests. His mother was fanning herself, her tone breezy and untroubled. “Oh, he pulled his lower back yesterday. It’s been bothering him.” She patted my shoulder. “Good timing. Go ahead and give him a massage.” She gestured to the unfamiliar faces around the table. “These are Christian’s business partners’ parents. Why don’t you give them a quick adjustment too while you’re at it?” Always this. I had explained to them countless times over the last seven years that my degree was in modern medicine. I was a gastroenterologist. I didn’t do chiropractic work, nor was I a licensed massage therapist. But every time they called, no matter the hour, Christian would demand that I drop everything and run to them. In the past, because I loved him and believed we would build a life together, I treated them like my own family. But today, I simply looked at her and shook my head. “I can’t do that.” A tense, heavy silence blanketed the patio. Just then, Christian walked through the side gate, Amber trailing close behind him. Seeing me, Amber offered a sweet, patronizing smile. “Oh, Rachel! I’m so jealous. It must be so nice to have so much free time to hang out with the family. Christian and I have been running around dealing with clients all day. My shoulders are practically dead.” Christian’s mother instantly turned to me. “Well, Rachel, since you’re already here, why don’t you give Amber a quick rubdown too?” I stood my ground, refusing to budge. The scratch on my arm throbbed under my sleeve. “I said, I can’t do it.” But his mother acted as if she hadn’t heard a word, pulling Amber toward the outdoor lounge chair. Christian frowned, gently pulling Amber back by her elbow. “Don’t bother,” he said, his voice flat. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing anyway.” He paused, casting a dismissive glance in my direction. “She quit her hospital job years ago. Calling herself a doctor is a stretch at this point.” The quiet judgment of the elderly guests pressed in on me like physical weight. Amber broke the silence with a light titter. “Oh, Christian is just being possessive. He tells everyone I’m strictly “his” assistant. He doesn’t like anyone else touching me—not even other women. I think I’ll just go home and take a hot bath.” As Amber picked up her designer handbag, Christian turned to leave. His eyes briefly flicked down to the angry, red scratch on my arm. “Need a ride?” I didn’t argue. I silently climbed into the backseat of his car. The entire drive was filled with their lighthearted engineering of inside jokes and corporate chatter. I couldn’t have joined the conversation even if I had wanted to. And I didn’t want to. It was only after we dropped Amber off at her apartment that Christian looked up at me through the rearview mirror. “You okay? There are bandages in the center console. Use those for now.” I opened the console. Inside, scattered carelessly, were Amber’s things: a tube of her signature lipstick, a travel-sized bottle of her sweet perfume, a few of her hair ties. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I shut the compartment and leaned my head against the cool window, watching the city lights blur past. Christian glanced at me again, his voice softening slightly. “Look, just be good. Once we close this major deal, I’ll take you on a trip.” “Where to?” I asked quietly. “Paris? Rome? Or wherever Amber wants to go next?” I fell silent. “Are we seriously going to fight about this?” he sighed, sounding exasperated. “Amber is the lead strategist on this account. It only makes sense that she comes along.” “Makes sense.” I closed my eyes. “I don’t want to go on a trip.” “Then what do you want?” I took a slow, deep breath. “Just give me a day off, Christian. If I’m really as dispensable as you say, don’t call me tomorrow. Don’t look for me. I just want to do absolutely nothing.” He pulled up to a red light, turning back to study my face for a long moment. “Fine,” he murmured. 4 The next morning. I woke up to a perfectly still, empty house. I made myself a quiet breakfast, taking my time with every bite. Then, I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began to pack. At exactly noon, Christian’s name lit up on my phone screen. I took a breath, letting the steady hum of my new reality ground me, and answered. “Rachel,” he said, his voice unusually frantic. “I left the pitch deck for the afternoon meeting on the study desk. Can you bring it to the office right away?” “No.” My voice was flat, devoid of any anger. A faint, tearful sniffle came through the line. “Please, Rachel,” Amber’s voice pleaded, taking over the call. “We really need it. The board presentation is in thirty minutes. We’ve all worked eighty-hour weeks for three months for this.” I remained silent for a few long seconds. “Send a courier,” I said. “Christian, you promised me today.” “Rachel,” Christian’s voice came back on, lower now, carrying that familiar weight of authority. “It’s a highly confidential contract. I don’t trust a courier with it. You know what happened last time I trusted the wrong person.” I hung up. With a heavy sigh, I grabbed my coat. Whatever lay between Christian and me, I didn’t want to be the reason an entire team of innocent employees lost their hard work. I told myself this was simply my final good deed. I caught a cab and rushed to his corporate high-rise downtown. I practically ran up the elevator, arriving at the executive suite slightly out of breath, clutching the manila envelope. But before I could even catch my breath, a burst of laughter erupted from his office. “See? I told you she’d show up,” Amber cheered. Christian took the envelope from my hand and, without even opening it, tossed it straight into the recycling bin. “I told you it was confidential, and you didn’t even bother to look inside,” he chuckled, leaning back in his leather chair. “You didn’t realize it’s just blank paper, did you? God, Rachel. You really are gullible.” Amber pouted playfully, nudging his shoulder. “Fine, fine. You win the bet. I’ll buy dinner.” I stood in the center of the office, a cold, hollow laugh bubbling up in my chest. My feelings, my time, my dignity—none of it had ever mattered. To them, I was just a prop in a cheap office bet. Amber pulled out a takeout box of greasy, heavy-smelling food, pinching her nose dramatically. “Do I really have to eat this? I have a client meeting in an hour!” Christian—who absolutely detested strong food odors and had banned garlic from our kitchen for years—merely laughed. He picked up a fry and fed it to her himself. When she choked slightly on the salt, he immediately patted her back, rushing to pour her a glass of water. Standing in the corner of that sleek, glass office, watching them giggle like teenagers, I felt… nothing. No anger. No jealousy. Just a profound, devastating sense of absurdity. “Look at him,” I thought. “This is the man I sacrificed my career and seven years of my life for.” When they finally remembered I was still in the room, Christian pulled a black Amex card from his wallet and slid it across the desk toward me. “Go down to the boutique on the corner and buy her a change of clothes. Grab some air freshener while you’re at it. Keep the card and buy yourself something nice. Consider it payment for your trouble. And drop the attitude, Rachel.” I picked up the black card. I looked him dead in the eye and let out a soft, genuine smile. “Sure, Christian. Just wait right here.” I walked out of the office, took the elevator straight down to the lobby, and hailed a cab to O’Hare International Airport. During the ride, I pulled up Christian’s contact info and blocked his number. I had given him so many chances. If he had recognized me as his partner, even just once, instead of his personal servant, I might have stayed. But it was too late now. Christian waited in his office until the sun dipped below the skyline, but I never returned. He likely assumed I was just throwing another tantrum. But when he finally unlocked the front door of our house late that night, he was met with cold silence. The dirty dishes from days ago were still piled high in the sink. The dust was settling on the entryway table. The house felt neglected, dead. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he called out my name. “Rachel?” Only his own voice echoed back to him. He walked upstairs to our bedroom. When he pulled open the closet doors, they slid back to reveal empty hangers. The anniversary necklace lay discarded on the vanity. The truth finally began to dawn on him. With trembling fingers, he dialed my number. But all he got was the flat, mechanical tone of a dead line.
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