The morning sun cut through the cheap plastic blinds.

It cast harsh, straight lines of light across the living room floor. Frieda pushed herself up from the armchair where she had spent the night. Her back ached.

She walked past the sofa and headed straight into the tiny kitchen.

She needed to make hangover soup.

Frieda grabbed a knife. She sliced through a firm red tomato and a yellow onion. Her movements were quick and precise. The sharp scent of raw onion filled the small space.

A low, painful groan came from the living room.

Dewitt slowly opened his eyes. The sunlight hit his face, and he winced.

He sat up, pressing the heels of his hands against his throbbing temples.

He looked down. He saw the fleece blanket pooled around his waist. His body went completely still. His eyes sharpened, instantly alert and guarded.

He heard the rhythmic chopping sound.

Dewitt turned his head. He saw Frieda standing at the kitchen counter. She was wearing a faded yellow apron over her clothes.

The memories of last night hit him like a freight train.

The smell of her skin. The way he had pinned her wrists. The absolute loss of control.

Dewitt's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. His stomach churned with deep, bitter regret. He had almost ruined the entire test.

He threw the blanket off his legs. He forced his face into a mask of pure ice.

He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. His footsteps were heavy and deliberate.

Frieda turned around. She held a steaming bowl of tomato and onion soup in her hands.

She looked up, a soft, hesitant smile forming on her lips.

Her smile died the second she met his eyes.

Dewitt's gaze was freezing. It cut through her like a physical blade.

Frieda froze. Her fingers tightened around the hot ceramic bowl.

Dewitt stared at the soup. His upper lip curled in a sneer.

"I don't need your cheap pity," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of any human warmth.

Frieda flinched. The words felt like a slap to the face.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her chin from trembling. She slowly turned and placed the bowl on the counter. She kept her head down, hiding the sudden sting of tears in her eyes.

Dewitt didn't look at her again.

He turned on his heel and marched straight to the guest bedroom.

The door slammed shut with a loud bang.

Inside the guest room, Dewitt walked straight to the attached bathroom. He turned on the faucet. He splashed freezing cold water onto his face, trying to wash away the scent of her that still lingered in his mind.

He dried his face. He stripped off his wrinkled shirt and pulled a fresh, dark, perfectly tailored suit from his garment bag.

He tied his tie with sharp, angry jerks. He looked in the mirror. The cold, ruthless corporate executive was back.

Dewitt walked out of the bedroom. He ignored the kitchen entirely.

He walked into the small room they used as a study and locked the door behind him.

He sat down at the cheap desk. He opened his encrypted laptop and logged into his secure cloud drive, a habit he maintained to keep his personal affairs strictly separated. He opened an email from his assistant, K.C.

The attachment was labeled: Divorce Agreement and Severance Terms.

Dewitt's eyes darkened. His chest felt tight, but he ignored it. He clicked download.

He scrolled through the legal jargon. He checked the final number. It was enough money to keep her comfortable for a few years. A generous payout for a failed test.

He grabbed his expensive fountain pen. He flipped to the printed signature page on the desk.

He pressed the gold nib against the thick paper. He was ready to end this.

A sharp, piercing ring echoed through the apartment.

The doorbell. It rang again. Frantic and loud.

Dewitt's hand jerked. The pen left a harsh black scratch across the paper. He cursed under his breath and dropped the pen.

In the kitchen, Frieda wiped her wet hands on her apron.

She frowned and walked to the front door. She leaned forward and looked through the peephole.

An elderly woman stood in the hallway. She had perfectly styled silver hair and wore a tailored tweed coat. A middle-aged woman stood slightly behind her, holding a massive, expensive-looking gift box.

Frieda had no idea who they were.

She hesitated for a second, then unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches.

The elderly woman's stern face instantly melted into a bright, warm smile.

"You must be Frieda," Eleonora Vance said.

Before Frieda could process the words, Eleonora pushed the door wide open and stepped right into the apartment. The nanny, Maura, followed closely behind.

In the study, Dewitt heard the voices.

His blood ran cold. He recognized that voice instantly.

He grabbed the divorce papers, shoved them into the bottom drawer of the desk, and slammed it shut.

He unlocked the study door and stepped into the living room.

His eyes locked onto Eleonora. His pupils dilated in pure shock.

Eleonora turned her head. She locked eyes with him.

"Dewitt Stone," she said. Her voice carried the heavy, unquestionable authority of a billionaire matriarch.

Dewitt's face drained of all color.

His lungs seized. His perfectly controlled world had just been blown wide open.

Frieda stood frozen in the middle of the living room.

Her hands nervously twisted the fabric of her yellow apron. The elderly woman's presence was overwhelming. She radiated a quiet, intimidating power that made the cheap apartment feel even smaller.

Eleonora reached out and gently took Frieda's hands.

"I am Dewitt's grandmother," Eleonora said. Her voice was surprisingly soft and warm.

Frieda's eyes widened. She gasped softly.

"Oh! Please, come in. Sit down," Frieda said, her voice shaking slightly. She quickly stepped aside, gesturing toward the worn sofa.

Eleonora smiled and sat down gracefully. Maura stood silently behind her.

Dewitt marched across the room. His jaw was locked tight.

He stopped right in front of Eleonora. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "What are you doing here? You didn't call."

Eleonora scoffed. She lifted her polished wooden cane and struck the cheap laminate floor with a loud thwack.

"You've been married for three months. You haven't brought your wife home once. Did you expect me to wait forever?" she snapped.

Dewitt's face turned a dangerous shade of pale. He couldn't say a word. He couldn't tell her he was running a psychological test on his wife to see if she was a gold digger. Not with Frieda standing two feet away.

Eleonora ignored his silent rage. She turned her sharp gaze around the room.

She took in the peeling paint on the baseboards, the cheap furniture, and the absolute, spotless cleanliness of the space.

Her eyes landed on the small coffee table. A cheap glass vase held a handful of wildflowers, arranged with an elegant, effortless beauty. Her eyes softened with approval.

Eleonora turned back to Frieda.

"Have you eaten breakfast, my dear?" Eleonora asked. "I rushed over here so early, I haven't had a bite."

Frieda's face flushed with embarrassment.

"I... I only have some basic things in the fridge," Frieda stammered. "Just eggs, some toast, and bacon."

Eleonora waved her hand dismissively. "That sounds wonderful. I would love to taste my granddaughter-in-law's cooking."

Dewitt stepped forward, his chest tight with panic.

"No," Dewitt said sharply. "I'll take you out. There's a French place downtown-"

Eleonora shot him a glare so lethal it made him snap his mouth shut.

"I said, I want to eat here," she commanded.

Frieda took a deep breath. Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

"I'll be right back," she said, turning and practically running into the kitchen.

She pulled open the refrigerator door. She grabbed the carton of eggs, a stick of butter, and the package of cheap bacon.

She stood in front of the counter. She closed her eyes for a split second.

A strange, familiar calm washed over her. It was a feeling she couldn't explain, a deep-rooted instinct that lived in her blood. The ghost of her mother, Emelie, guiding her hands.

Frieda opened her eyes. She moved.

Her hands flew across the cutting board. She minced fresh herbs with terrifying speed and precision. The knife blurred.

She didn't make a complicated dish. She cracked the eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and began to whisk with a steady, practiced rhythm. She was making a simple but careful scramble.

She dropped a pad of butter into the hot skillet. It sizzled loudly.

The rich, heavy scent of browning butter and roasting bacon exploded out of the kitchen and drifted into the living room.

On the sofa, Eleonora stopped glaring at Dewitt. She lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring slightly. A look of genuine surprise crossed her face.

Ten minutes later, Frieda walked out of the kitchen.

She carried two plain white ceramic plates. She set them down gently on the small dining table.

The omelettes were massive, golden, and perfectly puffed. The bacon was arranged on the side, crisp and glistening. It looked like a dish pulled straight from a three-star Michelin kitchen.

Eleonora stood up and walked to the table.

She picked up a fork and knife. She cut a small piece of the fluffy egg and placed it in her mouth.

Eleonora's eyes flew wide open.

The egg practically melted on her tongue. It was fluffy and incredibly tender, cooked to the exact right temperature, carrying a rich, distinct aroma of browned butter. It was the most thoughtfully prepared breakfast she had tasted in years.

Eleonora stared at Frieda in absolute disbelief. Women from the rust belt rarely had such an intuitive touch with simple ingredients. This required a natural, raw talent for the kitchen.

Eleonora dropped her fork. She reached out and grabbed Frieda's hands, squeezing them tight.

"This is the most incredible breakfast I have ever had," Eleonora said, her voice thick with emotion.

Frieda's cheeks burned bright red. She looked down at her shoes. "It's just eggs. I just threw it together."

Dewitt stood in the shadows near the hallway.

His eyes were locked on the perfect, golden food on the plates. His chest tightened. A dark wave of suspicion crashed into him.

He had read her background check ten times. She grew up in a trailer park. She couldn't afford a culinary degree.

Eleonora looked at Frieda like she had just found a diamond in the rough. The approval in her eyes was absolute.

Dewitt clenched his fists at his sides.

His plan was falling apart. His divorce was slipping right through his fingers.

Eleonora dabbed the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. She let out a soft sigh of pure satisfaction.

She placed the napkin on the table and grabbed her wooden cane.

"Now," Eleonora said, her eyes sparkling with energy. "I want a grand tour of your little love nest."

Frieda's blood ran cold. The smile vanished from her face.

Her eyes darted in a blind panic toward the hallway. Toward the closed door at the very end.

Dewitt moved instantly.

He took three long strides and planted his large body right in the middle of the hallway entrance. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"There's nothing to see," Dewitt said. His voice was hard, defensive. "It's a tiny apartment. You've seen the living room."

Eleonora narrowed her eyes. She smelled the lie immediately.

She lifted her cane and slammed the rubber tip onto the floor. She marched straight at him and shoved her hand against his solid chest, pushing him aside with surprising strength.

She walked past him and opened the first door on the right. The master bedroom.

The room was clean and smelled like vanilla. But Eleonora's sharp eyes scanned the details.

The cheap lotion on the dresser. The single pair of worn slippers by the bed. She opened the closet door. Only women's clothes hung inside.

Eleonora's lips pressed into a thin, furious line.

She turned around and walked out of the master bedroom. Her eyes locked onto the closed door at the end of the hall.

Dewitt stepped forward to block her again.

Suddenly, Maura, the large nanny, shifted her weight. She stepped right into Dewitt's path, pretending to look at a picture on the wall. Her broad shoulders effectively boxed him out for two crucial seconds.

Eleonora reached the end of the hall. She grabbed the doorknob and shoved the door open.

A sterile, cold room stared back at her. A narrow twin bed. A dark, expensive suit jacket draped over the back of a wooden chair.

Through the half-open bathroom door, she saw a man's razor and a bottle of heavy, musky cologne sitting on the sink.

Eleonora's face turned to stone.

She slowly turned her head and locked her furious gaze onto Dewitt. Her eyes burned with a terrifying rage.

In the living room, Frieda wrapped her arms around her stomach. She stared at the floor. Her face burned with intense shame. The ugly truth of her fake marriage was exposed for everyone to see.

Eleonora didn't scream. She took a deep, shaking breath.

She pointed her trembling finger toward the small balcony attached to the living room.

"Outside. Now," Eleonora ordered.

Dewitt swallowed hard. He followed his grandmother out onto the balcony. He reached back and pulled the heavy glass sliding door completely shut, sealing them inside.

The second the door clicked shut, Eleonora raised her hand.

She didn't strike him, but the fury in her eyes hit him harder than a physical blow.

"Are you treating marriage like a game?" she hissed, her voice vibrating with anger. "You leave that sweet girl sleeping alone in that room?"

Dewitt shoved his hands deep into his suit pockets. His jaw muscles ticked.

"I'm testing her," Dewitt said coldly.

He stared down at his grandmother. "I told her I'm a middle manager making a few thousand a month. I need to know if she's a gold digger."

Eleonora gasped. Her eyes widened in pure horror.

"You are sick," she whispered. "You have the worst traits of the Stone bloodline. You treat everyone like a thief."

Dewitt let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

"My mother trusted people," Dewitt snarled, his voice dropping an octave. "Corinna trusted her own family. And she bled to death on a hospital bed because of it. I will not make her mistake."

At the mention of her dead daughter, Eleonora flinched. The anger drained from her face, replaced by a sudden, agonizing grief. Her eyes filled with tears.

Dewitt pressed his advantage. "It's a three-month test. If she doesn't ask for money, if she proves she's not a parasite, I'll give her everything."

Eleonora turned her head. She looked through the glass door.

Frieda was in the living room. She was wiping down the coffee table with a rag. Her shoulders were slumped. She looked so small, so incredibly fragile.

Eleonora turned back to Dewitt. Her eyes hardened again.

"Your psychological torture is going to break her," Eleonora warned.

Dewitt looked away. He stared out at the city skyline. He refused to back down.

"Fine," Eleonora said, her voice turning icy. "If you want to play games, I will play mine. I am going to compensate that girl for putting up with your cruelty."

She turned around, slid the glass door open, and marched back into the living room with the force of a hurricane.

Dewitt's stomach plummeted. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He quickly followed her inside.