Lucas
Arriving at my villa in the Upper East Side of Manhattan in my limousine felt almost comical with Cynthia and I, supposed newlyweds, heading to the airport but instead being chauffeured to my private house. The charade suited us; we didn’t have a honeymoon planned anyway.
“Welcome to one of our homes, Mrs. Sterlin,” I said, holding the door for her.
Cynthia stepped in with her usual catwalk like she was on a runway, eyes scanning the spacious living room as light from the chandelier glinted off polished surfaces. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had such fancy taste,” she teased, her tone light, but I caught the subtle jab.
Ben, my chef and steward, trained for days like this, emerged and bowed before me. “Congratulations, Mr. Sterlin,” and to Cynthia, “and Mrs. Sterlin.”
“Oh
