Chapter 2

By the time I returned home with my groceries, night had already fallen.

I slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open, only to find the living room lights already on.

Before I could even take off my shoes, I spotted a familiar figure standing by the dining table.

Sophia, wearing a light gray trench coat with her hair pulled back into a neat bun, was weaving a strand of warm yellow fairy lights around the edge of the table.

On the table sat white tulips, a place setting, and a small cake. Written in beautiful cursive frosting across the top were the words: Happy Birthday, Emma.

Hearing the door open, she turned around, a bright smile quickly surfacing on her face.

"Happy Birthday, Emma."

She walked over and handed me a gift box.

"I wanted to come over earlier, but a last-minute contract needed my approval at the office. I figured you'd be heading home around now, so I swung by to help decorate and drop off your present."

I looked down at the box, then back at the table.

The once-empty tabletop had been entirely transformed, down to the carefully rearranged silverware. Beside the bouquet lay a card, its handwriting neat and elegant.

"Thank you."

I took the box and set it on the table.

"I’m just glad you like it," Sophia said, exhaling a soft sigh of relief. "I wasn't entirely sure what your tastes are these days, so I went with something practical."

I unwrapped the box to find a pale green glass vase. Faint, intricate vine patterns were etched into the glass. Its design was minimalist, its proportions perfect—it was, undeniably, exactly my style.

"I found it at a little studio in the historic district," Sophia explained. "The owner said they're hand-blown, so no two are exactly alike."

Smoothing my thumb over the glass surface, a sudden thought hit me: if things hadn't changed, I’d probably be spending my thirtieth birthday right now inside my own studio. I’d be tweaking a living room floor plan for a sprawling villa, arguing with a client over paint swatches, or sharing a hastily bought cake with my team.

At the very least, I wouldn’t be standing here holding a bag of groceries, realizing I had nearly forgotten my own birthday.

I placed the vase next to the tulips and looked back at Sophia.

She was twenty-seven, a project manager at Walker Home—which also made her Benjamin’s subordinate.

Young, beautiful, and razor-sharp, she could glance at a document and isolate its core issue in seconds. We rarely crossed paths, but whenever she dropped off files at the house, she always maintained perfectly professional, polite boundaries with me.

For a while, however, praise for her was all I ever heard from my husband.

"Sophia is brilliant. She thinks on her feet."

"She’s young, full of energy. She can actually keep pace with the company's speed."

"She understands the projects and the market—unlike some people, who only know how to cook and clean all day."

He always dropped these comments so casually, but I knew exactly who "some people" referred to. Me.

Once, when Sophia stopped by to deliver a contract, Benjamin was discussing a new project with her. He suddenly turned to me and asked,

"Emma, do you have any idea what residential buyers care about most these days?"

I said I didn't know.

By that point, I hadn’t touched the market or attended a design expo in three years. My world had shrunk down to the kitchen, the laundry room, and cooking three meals a day.

Benjamin let out a soft chuckle and turned back to Sophia.

"See? That's the gap right there. You could explain it in the simplest terms, and she still wouldn’t get it."

Honestly, in the beginning, Sophia's presence bothered me. She was too close to Benjamin, frequenting our home in a way that simply didn't align with the boundaries of a good subordinate.

Because of that, I had eventually pulled Sophia aside for a private conversation.

We met at a café near the office. I cut straight to the chase, asking if she had any ulterior motives regarding my marriage.

Sophia froze, taking a long moment to process what I was implying.

She looked down, her finger absently tracing the rim of her coffee cup.

"First off, I owe you an apology," she said quietly. "I realize I come over often, and I do sometimes prep gifts for him on the company's behalf. I know how easily that behavior can be misinterpreted."

She lifted her gaze, her expression dead serious.

"But I'm asking you to please hear me out."

I said nothing.

"I didn't do it to get close to him. I did it to get close to you."

Sophia went on to tell me that she was my junior from college. By the time she enrolled, I had already graduated. The first time she ever saw me, she said, was when I returned to campus as a distinguished alumni guest speaker.

I couldn't even remember the specifics of that speech. All I recalled was being invited to share my startup journey. My studio had just secured its first major commercial project, and the university administration formally introduced me to an auditorium full of students.

"You said during that speech that design isn't about stuffing a house with things, but about making the people who live inside it feel free."

Sophia looked at me, a sudden spark lighting up her eyes.

"That was the exact moment I found my calling."

I stared at her, stunned.

"It wasn't just a speech that made me remember you," she continued. "I followed every single project you took on after that. I hoarded all your publicly released sketches. Your studio was the one place I wanted to work more than anywhere else in the world."

A bitter smile tugged at her lips.

"When I finally graduated, my biggest dream was to work beside you. But when I went looking for you, I found out you had shuttered the studio."

I lowered my eyes.

For three long years, I had paced back and forth between an oven and a washing machine, completely unaware that someone across the city was still searching for my name.

"People told me you stopped taking clients after you got married," Sophia said softly. "I thought you were just taking a temporary break. I never imagined you completely abandoned the design industry."

"So... you joined Walker Home?"

"Yes." She nodded. "I wanted to use the company as a bridge to find you, to confirm if you still had any desire to design. I was never trying to get close to someone's husband. I was trying to reach the mentor I’ve idolized for years."

She reached into her bag, pulled out a stack of documents, and slid them across the table.

"I want to partner with you. I want us to launch a new women’s home furnishings brand."

My fingers hovered over the edge of the folder, but I didn't open it.

Sophia proceeded to break down her business plan, beat by beat. She had already reached out to several female-led startup funds, secured preliminary letters of intent from two major distributors, and negotiated with a handful of factories perfectly equipped for small-batch manufacturing.

The brand was positioned strictly around women’s living spaces. The products weren't aimed at luxury or status, but rather at giving single, independent women a sanctuary that truly felt like their own.

"I will handle the market, the distribution, and the resources," she told me, locking eyes with mine. "You will handle the design and the creative."

Staring at those pages, my throat tightened.

Picking up a sketchpad again meant facing the market, the clients, and the barrage of skepticism. It meant I could no longer hide inside this house, treating myself as someone whose sole purpose was to wait.

But if I said no, I would remain frozen in place. I would continue letting three meals a day consume my entire existence. I would let my name fade from the industry until it vanished entirely.

"You don't have to give me an answer right now. But please, at least read through the proposal before you decide you're done forever."

That memory faded, snapping my thoughts back to the present.

Sophia pulled a fresh folder from her tote bag and handed it to me. "This is part of your birthday present, too."

She opened it to reveal a preliminary marketing rollout for the brand.

"We'll start with small-batch production, focusing on bedrooms, home offices, and compact living spaces for single women. In the early stages, we’ll test the market strictly through e-commerce channels and pivot the product line based on data feedback. Your designs will be the pulse of this brand, Emma. Every single piece of creative credit will bear your name."

I stared at the jargon—words so intensely familiar yet painfully foreign after three years away—and my fingers slowly curled into a fist.

"Do you really think I can still do this?"

"I don't just 'think' it," Sophia replied without a flicker of hesitation. "I know you can."