Chapter 2 Drawing The Line

• By 6:30 PM, the driver had brought up my four leather suitcases.
• Instead of waiting for Phai’s approval like I had done in my past life, I immediately unpacked my things into the guest bedroom across the hall from her master suite. I hung my plain cotton shirts, high-waisted trousers, and linen dresses into the walk-in closet, ignoring the empty space reserved for the expensive designer clothes Phai’s mother would inevitably try to send over next week.
• At 7:00 PM, I walked into the open-concept kitchen.
• The penthouse kitchen was massive, lined with dark grey slate counters, top-of-the-line Italian appliances, and a marble island that looked like it belonged in a high-end restaurant. It was spotless—and entirely devoid of life.
• In my previous life, I had spent my first evening here cooking a three-course Thai dinner for Phai. I had made Tom Yum Goong, steamed snow fish, and sweet mango sticky rice, burning my fingers on the hot pots while waiting until 10:00 PM for her to come home. When she finally walked through the door, she had looked at the cold food on the table, said she had already eaten at a corporate business dinner, and told me to ask the housekeeper to throw it out.
• Tonight, I didn't cook for her.
• I pulled a single ceramic bowl from the cabinet, boiled water on the induction stove, and made a portion of dry instant noodles with boiled eggs and fresh spinach. I sat down at the far end of the long marble kitchen island, eating quietly while scrolling through my phone.
• At 7:45 PM, the electronic lock on the front door beeped.
• The heavy teak door swung open, and Phai walked in. She was carrying her leather briefcase, her blazer draped over her forearm, her silk blouse slightly unbuttoned at the collar. She looked exhausted, her dark hair slightly tousled around her face.
• She paused in the foyer, her eyes instantly darting toward the kitchen.
• She looked at the empty stove, then at the marble island, and finally at me sitting there in a plain white t-shirt, chewing on my noodles while looking at an article about sustainable textile manufacturing on my screen.
• "You didn't order food?" Phai asked, setting her briefcase down on the entry table. Her voice carried a hint of surprise.
• "I made noodles," I said, without looking up from my phone screen.
• Phai walked into the kitchen, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She stopped on the opposite side of the marble island, staring at my simple plastic bowl.
• "The housekeeper left three chef-prepared meals in the refrigerator," she said, her brows knitting together slightly. "My mother hired a personal chef for the apartment. You don't have to eat instant food."
• "I like noodles," I replied calmly. I swallowed my bite, locked my phone screen, and finally looked up at her. "Did you need something, Khun Phai?"
• Phai stilled.
• In the four years I had known her in my past life—and during the two months of our formal engagement—I had always called her 'Phai'. I had said it with warmth, with hesitation, or with a desperate kind of hope.
• Hearing me call her 'Khun Phai'—the cold, formal title used by her mid-level corporate employees—made her jaw tighten instantly.
• "We are married, Lita," Phai said, her tone dropping an octave into a low, warning register. "You don't need to call me 'Khun'."
• "It's a formal agreement," I said, setting my chopsticks down flat across my bowl. "We signed a contract. You made it clear this morning that this is a business arrangement for press coverage and family debt clearance. 'Khun Phai' seems appropriate."
• Phai stared at me, her dark eyes narrowing as she searched my face for any sign of passive aggression, hurt, or sarcasm.
• She found none. My face was completely neutral, my posture relaxed, my breathing slow and steady.
• She cleared her throat, her right hand coming up to adjust her collar in a rare gesture of visible discomfort. "My mother invited us to dinner at the main house on Sunday evening. A car will pick us up at six."
• "I have plans on Sunday evening," I said evenly.
• Phai blinked. "What?"
• "I have plans," I repeated, picking up my water glass and taking a small sip. "My former university classmate asked me to meet her to discuss setting up an independent clothing brand. I'll be busy from five to nine."
• Phai’s face went rigid. "Lita, my mother expects us—"
• "Your mother cleared my father's debt in exchange for four public events a year," I interrupted, setting my glass down with a light, deliberate clack against the marble. "The contract does not state that I am required to attend informal family dinners on four days' notice. If you want me to attend, your assistant needs to add it to my calendar at least one week in advance."
• Phai stood on the other side of the island, completely speechless.
• For twenty-four years, Phaidra Kittisiri had been surrounded by people who bent to her every whim—her employees, her corporate subordinates, her socialite friends, and, previously, me. She was used to issuing commands and watching people scramble to comply.
• Having a twenty-two-year-old girl sit in her kitchen, eating instant noodles, and calmly quoting contract terms back to her face was clearly something she had never experienced in her life.
• "Are you doing this because of the agreement this morning?" Phai asked, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp heat. She leaned forward, resting both hands flat on the marble counter. "Are you throwing a tantrum because I set boundaries?"
• I looked at her hands—long, manicured fingers with clean nails—and then looked back up into her eyes.
• A small, quiet smile touched the corners of my mouth. It wasn't a bitter smile. It was the smile of someone who had already lived through the worst thing this woman could ever do to her, and realized she had nothing left to fear.
• "I'm not throwing a tantrum, Khun Phai," I said softly. "I'm just setting boundaries of my own."
• I picked up my empty bowl and glass, walked over to the sink, rinsed them thoroughly, and placed them in the dishwasher.
• I picked up my phone, walked past her without making eye contact, and headed toward my bedroom.
• "Lita," Phai called out from the kitchen. Her voice sounded strange—less like a boss giving an order, and more like someone who had just felt the ground shift under her feet.
• I paused near my bedroom doorway, looking back over my shoulder. "Yes?"
• Phai stood by the island, holding her suit jacket over her arm, staring at me across the dark, empty living room. Her throat worked silently for a moment before she managed to speak.
• "The... the guest room door doesn't lock automatically from the inside," she said, her voice unusually tight. "You have to turn the deadbolt twice."
• "Thank you," I said. "Goodnight, Khun Phai."
• I stepped into my room, pulled the heavy wooden door shut, and turned the brass deadbolt twice until it clicked locked.
• ***