Chapter 1

The moment I slammed six designer outfits onto our marble dining table, my wife stopped smiling.

A pair of expensive sunglasses slid across the polished surface.

Shopping bags tipped over.

One of the receipts floated to the floor.

And beside me stood my sixteen-year-old daughter, Maya, wearing the same faded cardigan she had owned for nearly three years.

She was holding nothing.

Not a shopping bag.

Not a new shirt.

Not even a pair of socks.

I pointed at the mountain of expensive clothes.

"You bought all this for YOUR daughters... and nothing for mine?"

My voice echoed through the dining room.

Denise stood across from me, dressed in a black lounge outfit, her long locs falling over her shoulders.

Behind her stood her two daughters, Tasha and Lily.

Both girls wore brand-new sneakers.

Both had fresh hairstyles.

And both were carrying shopping bags from stores where a single jacket cost more than Maya's entire school wardrobe.

Denise placed both hands on her hips.

"Marcus, lower your voice."

I stared at her.

"Answer my question."

She rolled her eyes.

"What's your problem?"

"My problem?"

I picked up a cream-colored designer sweater.

The price tag read $480.

Then I grabbed a pair of shoes.

$650.

A leather handbag.

$1,200.

I looked at Maya.

She lowered her eyes.

"Sweetheart," I asked gently, "did Denise buy you anything today?"

Maya shook her head.

"No, Daddy."

Her voice was barely audible.

I turned back toward my wife.

"Why?"

Denise didn't hesitate.

"Because those are my daughters."

I waited.

Surely there was more.

Surely the woman I had married wouldn't say what I thought she was about to say.

But Denise folded her arms and delivered the words that changed our marriage forever.

"Maya is YOUR responsibility."

For several seconds, I couldn't speak.

My daughter stood beside me, her shoulders shrinking.

She had heard every word.

Denise didn't seem to care.

I glanced toward Tasha and Lily.

Tasha, seventeen, looked down at her new handbag.

Lily, fifteen, shifted uncomfortably.

Neither girl said anything.

I turned back to Denise.

"Say that again."

She sighed.

"Marcus, don't start acting dramatic."

"Say it."

She lifted her chin.

"I said Maya is your child. Tasha and Lily are mine. I take care of my daughters, and you take care of yours."

Something cold settled inside my chest.

I had married Denise six years earlier.

Maya was ten then.

Her biological mother, my first wife, Angela, had died when Maya was seven.

For three years, I had raised Maya alone.

I worked long hours managing my construction company, but I never missed her school concerts or birthdays.

When Denise came into our lives, she seemed like a blessing.

She was warm.

Patient.

Funny.

She told me she loved children.

She promised Maya that she would never replace Angela, but she would always be another adult Maya could depend on.

I believed her.

God help me, I believed every word.

And because I wanted our blended family to succeed, I treated Tasha and Lily as my own daughters.

I paid their school tuition.

Their medical bills.

Their extracurricular activities.

Their vacations.

I bought Tasha her first car.

I paid for Lily's braces.

When Denise wanted a larger house so all three girls could have separate bedrooms, I bought one.

I never called Tasha and Lily someone else's responsibility.

Not once.

Now my wife was standing in front of me, explaining why my own daughter didn't deserve a new outfit.

I reached for the receipts.

There were fourteen of them.

Fourteen separate purchases.

The total made my stomach tighten.

$18,740.

I stared at the numbers.

Three days earlier, Denise had asked me for twenty thousand dollars.

She said the girls needed school clothes, winter jackets, and supplies for the new semester.

I transferred the money without hesitation.

I specifically told her to make sure all three girls had what they needed.

Now I understood.

"Denise," I said quietly, "I gave you money for ALL the kids."

She shrugged.

"And I take care of MY children."

Maya flinched.

That tiny movement hurt me more than Denise's words.

I turned toward my daughter.

Her glasses had slipped down her nose.

Her eyes were glossy.

She was trying desperately not to cry.

I knew that expression.

She had worn it at her mother's funeral when relatives kept telling her to be strong.

I had promised her that day she would never have to hide her pain from me.

Yet somehow, she had learned to do exactly that inside my own house.

"How long?" I asked.

Maya blinked.

"What?"

"How long has this been happening?"

Denise interrupted.

"Marcus, don't interrogate her."

I raised one hand.

"Not another word."

My wife stared at me.

I had never spoken to her like that before.

But I wasn't shouting anymore.

That frightened her more than my anger.

I looked at Maya.

"How long, sweetheart?"

She swallowed.

"A while."

"What does that mean?"

Her bottom lip trembled.

"Since last year."

I felt as though someone had struck me.

"Last year?"

She nodded.

I remembered the previous Christmas.

Tasha received a designer handbag.

Lily received a new phone.

Maya received a notebook and a pair of pajamas.

Denise had told me Maya preferred simple gifts.

I remembered Maya thanking us politely.

I remembered thinking she was wonderfully mature.

Now I realized she had simply learned not to expect anything.

I looked at the expensive clothes scattered across the table.

Then at the woman I had trusted.

"Fine," I said.

Denise frowned.

"What?"

I nodded slowly.

"Then we'll do exactly what you said."

Her expression changed.

"Marcus, what are you talking about?"

I reached for Maya's hand.

She looked up at me.

I squeezed it gently.

Then I opened the leather folder containing our household expenses.

I had brought it downstairs earlier because Denise had asked me to approve another credit-card payment.

I pulled out the bills.

Mortgage.

Utilities.

Groceries.

Private-school tuition.

Car insurance.

Phone plans.

Medical insurance.

Shopping accounts.

Vacation installments.

I dropped the thick stack directly in front of Denise.

"Starting today, I pay for Maya."

Denise stared at me.

"And YOU pay for your daughters."

Her mouth opened.

I continued.

"Clothes. Food. School. Everything that falls under your responsibility."

Tasha looked up sharply.

Lily stopped breathing for a moment.

Denise's face collapsed.

"You can't do that!"

I looked her directly in the eyes.

"Why not?"

She stepped toward me.

"Marcus, that's ridiculous!"

I reached for the remaining receipts.

"You said Maya is my responsibility."

"That's different!"

"How?"

"Because you're the man of this house!"