The guest house was an upgrade. It was a sleek, modern bungalow with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private garden and a small, serene pond. For the next week, my life was blissfully peaceful.

I swam in my private pool, I experimented with new recipes in the state-of-the-art kitchen, and my only contact with the main house was the daily delivery of Connor's meticulously planned meals.

I continued to monitor his health remotely through the smart watch I' d insisted he wear, and every morning at 5 AM, before Bella woke up, he would sneak over for his training session in the guest house's private gym.

It was during these sessions that I got the unfiltered reports from the front lines.

"She's driving me insane," Apollo, the house manager, muttered one morning as he dropped off a crate of organic kale. His usually immaculate suit was rumpled, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"What's she done now?" I asked, sipping my coffee.

Apollo ran a hand over his face. "Yesterday, she demanded I fill her bathtub with rose petals. Not just any rose petals. They had to be 'the color of a lover's blush at sunset.' I showed her three different shades of pink. She threw them at me."

I tried not to smile. "And?"

"Then, she decided she would only eat food that a 'tragically misunderstood heroine' would eat. I asked for a list. She told me to read the first twelve chapters of a book called 'The Duke's Forsaken Bride' and figure it out. Apparently, it involves a lot of toast and weak tea."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Connor' s gastritis is acting up again. He can't live on toast and tea."

"I know," I said, glancing at the data on my tablet. His stress levels were through the roof. "Just keep sneaking him my meals."

"Then she found the Fabergé egg in the display case," Apollo groaned. "She smashed it. Said it was a 'symbol of our broken love' and that it 'had to be sacrificed' for us to heal."

I winced. That egg was worth more than my original salary.

"I'm glad I'm over here," I said honestly.

A sense of foreboding prickled at the back of my neck. This peaceful arrangement felt too good to be true. It was.

The following afternoon, my front door was thrown open with such force that it slammed against the wall. Bella stood there, her face a mask of fury.

She marched in, her eyes scanning the luxurious interior of the guest house. She spotted the high-end espresso machine, the Diptyque candles, the Frette linens on the bed visible through the open bedroom door.

Her eyes landed on me, lounging on the sofa in a silk robe, reading a book.

"I knew it!" she shrieked. "He didn't fire you! He's hiding you here! This is the 'secret love nest' chapter!"

I slowly closed my book and set it down. "Ms. Salazar, I am a remote employee. This is my company-provided housing."

I decided to try logic again, a foolish endeavor. I walked to my desk, picked up a file, and handed it to her. "This is my employment contract, revised as of last week. Perhaps seeing it will clarify the situation."

She snatched it from my hand. Her eyes scanned the document, widening in shock as they landed on the salary section. The number, written out in full, seemed to vibrate on the page.

"One million dollars?" she screeched, her voice cracking. "He's paying you one million dollars?"

Her mind, steeped in the toxic brew of dime-store romance plots, could only process this information in one way.

"This isn't a salary," she hissed, her face contorting with rage and jealousy. "This is a retainer. He's keeping you. You're his mistress!"

The accusation, so vile and so baseless, hit a nerve. My professional integrity was everything to me. It was the foundation of my career, the justification for my salary.

"That's enough," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerously low tone.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Connor's number. He answered on the first ring.

"Connor," I said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Your… friend is in my house, screaming insults at me. I suggest you handle this, or our discreet arrangement is over."

I could hear him sigh on the other end. "Put her on, Clementine."

I held the phone out to Bella. "He wants to talk to you."

She sneered but took the phone, putting it on speaker. "Connor, darling, I've found her! She's been living in luxury right under our noses-"

"Bella," Connor's voice was firm, devoid of its usual patience. "Leave her house. Now."

"But she-"

"I said now. Go back to the main house. We'll talk later."

The change in Bella's expression was immediate. The haughty fury drained away, replaced by a flash of genuine fear. She snapped the phone out of speaker mode, her face pale as she listened to whatever he was saying.

A moment later, she hung up and threw my phone onto the sofa. She glared at me, her eyes filled with venom.

"This isn't over," she spat, before turning on her heel and storming out.

I picked up my phone, a sudden thought occurring to me. I should probably ask Connor for emotional distress compensation. Another hundred thousand a year seemed fair.

To avoid another confrontation, I started having Apollo pick up Connor's meals from the edge of the property. For a few days, there was peace.

Then, one evening, Apollo showed up looking more stressed than ever. He was holding a thick, cream-colored envelope.

"This is for you," he said, handing it to me. "It's an invitation."

I opened it. It was a formal invitation to a welcome home party for Bella, hosted by Connor. My name was on the guest list.

"Absolutely not," I said, tossing it on the counter.

"Connor insisted," Apollo said quietly. "He said… he'd pay you a fifty-thousand-dollar appearance fee."

I paused. Fifty grand to attend a party for a few hours.

I snatched the invitation back up off the counter.

"You know," I said, putting a hand over my heart and looking at Apollo with utmost sincerity. "Connor has done so much for me. It would be rude of me not to go and personally welcome Ms. Salazar home. It's the least I can do to show my support."

Apollo just stared at me, then slowly shook his head and walked away, muttering something about needing a very strong drink.

The party was in full swing when I arrived. The main house was glittering with lights and filled with the low hum of conversation from Silicon Valley's elite. I spotted Connor across the room, looking dashing but stressed in a tailored suit, with Bella clinging to his arm.

She was playing the part of the gracious hostess, but her eyes kept darting around the room, a predator scanning for its prey. Her gaze landed on me and narrowed for a fraction of asecond before she pasted on a brilliant smile.

At the center of the living room, a grand piano stood gleaming under a spotlight. As if on cue, Bella detached herself from Connor, glided over to the piano, and sat down. A hush fell over the room as her fingers danced across the keys, producing a beautiful, complex melody. For a moment, just a moment, she looked elegant, talented, and almost… normal.

I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and moved toward the periphery, intending to remain invisible. It didn't work.

"Clementine! I was hoping you'd be here."

I turned to see Evans Mosley, the venture capitalist whose notoriously bad back I had practically rebuilt last year. He was beaming, clapping me on the shoulder.

"Evans, good to see you," I said.

"That spread you put together is magnificent," he said, gesturing to the buffet table, which was laden with my carefully designed, health-conscious but delicious creations. "Javier and I were just saying, when are you going to quit working for Smith and come work for us? We'll double whatever he's paying you."

"Triple," a voice behind me corrected. It was Javier Mullins, another of my high-profile clients. "Your roasted salmon with dill-yogurt sauce saved my marriage. My wife says I'm a new man."

They were my biggest advocates, living proof of my professional worth. Their praise was a constant, ringing endorsement in a world where results were everything.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

It didn't fade out; it crashed to a halt on a dissonant chord. Every head in the room turned toward the piano.

Bella was on her feet, her face flushed. She had clearly noticed that I was receiving more attention than her performance was.

"Thank you, everyone," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "It's so wonderful to be back."

She curtsied, then her eyes found me again. "I see we have another talented artist in our midst."

All eyes followed her gaze to me. I stood perfectly still.

"That's Clementine Peters," Bella announced to the room. "She's… a very dear friend of Connor's." She loaded the words with insinuation. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind sharing her talents with us as well."

A low murmur went through the crowd. Evans and Javier exchanged a confused look.

"Don't be shy, Clementine," Bella urged, her smile becoming predatory. "I'm sure everyone would love to hear you play. It would be so rude to refuse, wouldn't it?"

She was trying to corner me, to force a public humiliation. Her script demanded that the impostor be exposed as a fraud in front of everyone. She could already picture it: my clumsy fumbling at the keys, the snickers from the crowd, her "magnanimous" rescue as she stepped in to save the evening. She was practically vibrating with anticipation.

I looked at the piano, then back at her expectant face.

"No, thank you," I said clearly.

The smile froze on Bella's face. The air crackled with her thwarted ambition.

"What?" she sputtered, her composure cracking. "But… but that's not how it's supposed to go. You're supposed to try, and fail, and then I-" She stopped herself, realizing she'd said too much.

Her face turned an ugly shade of red. She looked like a child whose favorite toy had just been broken.

Just then, Connor appeared at my side, having finished his conversation. "Is everything alright?" he asked, sensing the tension.

Bella's face crumpled instantly. "Connor!" she wailed, rushing to him and burying her face in his chest. "She's being horrible to me! I just asked her to play a little song, and she humiliated me in front of everyone!"

I held up my hands. "I just said no."

Evans Mosley stepped forward. "That is, in fact, all she said, Connor. Bella was the one making things… awkward."

Connor's jaw tightened. He looked tired, so incredibly tired. The party, meant to be a celebration, had turned into another stage for Bella's personal drama.

He looked at me, a pleading expression in his eyes. He pulled out his checkbook.

"Clementine," he said under his breath. "One hundred thousand. Just play something. Anything. Please."

I looked at the checkbook, then at his exhausted face.

I sighed. "Fine."

I walked over to the piano. The entire room was watching me. Bella had detached from Connor and was now watching me with a smug, triumphant grin. She thought she had won.

I sat down on the bench. I had taken exactly one year of piano lessons when I was eight. I remembered one song.

I placed my hands on the keys and, with intense concentration, began to plink out a clumsy, one-fingered rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

The sound was jarring, childish, and utterly devoid of any musicality.

The clumsy, out-of-tune notes of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" echoed in the vast, silent living room. It was a stark, almost comical contrast to the intricate Chopin nocturne Bella had just performed.

Bella' s smug grin widened. This was it. The moment of my utter humiliation. She scanned the crowd, eagerly awaiting the jeers, the whispers, the looks of pity that were supposed to be directed at me.

But they never came.

The assembled titans of tech and finance simply stood there, their expressions ranging from polite indifference to mild amusement. Evans Mosley sipped his drink. Javier Mullins was checking his phone. No one was laughing at me.

Bella' s smile faltered. This wasn't right. The extras weren't following the script.

"Why aren't you laughing?" she demanded, her voice a harsh whisper directed at a woman standing near her. "She's making a fool of herself!"

The woman, a sharp-eyed COO I' d helped with her cholesterol, just raised an eyebrow. "Why would we laugh? She's a personal trainer, not a concert pianist. Her value has nothing to do with her musical ability."

She took a pointed bite of a quinoa-stuffed mushroom from my buffet. "This, however, is genius."

Bella looked as if she'd been slapped. She couldn't comprehend it. In her world, the world of romance novels, the protagonist had to be perfect at everything, and any rival was inherently inferior in all aspects. The fact that these powerful people valued my skills in nutrition over my lack of skill in music was a reality her fantasy-addled brain couldn't process.

"You're all fools!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with fury. "You're just background characters! Your only job is to adore the hero and heroine and mock the villain! You're doing it all wrong!"

The room went dead silent.

Evans Mosley slowly lowered his glass. "I believe," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "that my five-billion-dollar fund and I are more than just 'background characters.' And I believe we've had enough of this evening."

He turned and walked toward the door. "Clementine, my office will call you Monday. Name your price."

That one act broke the dam. Within minutes, the room was emptying. The welcome-home party had become a mass exodus.

"Don't go!" Connor pleaded, rushing toward the door, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Bella stood in the middle of the room, fuming. "Let them go," she sniffed, tossing her hair back. "Insignificant gnats. When Connor and I are married, I'll make sure they can never get another round of funding in this valley again."

The last few remaining guests, hearing this, also turned and left without a word.

The party was over.

I stood up from the piano, my work here clearly done. A hundred grand for a terrible rendition of a nursery rhyme. Not a bad hourly rate.

As I headed for the door, a hand clamped down on my wrist. It was Bella.

"This is your fault," she hissed, her eyes wild. "You plotted this. You turned them all against me!"

"Bella, let her go," Connor said, his voice heavy with a disappointment so profound it seemed to suck the air out of the room.

"Make her apologize!" Bella demanded. "Punish her!"

Connor looked at her, and for the first time since she' d returned, the naive affection in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, weary clarity.

"I'm tired, Bella," he said. "I'm just so, so tired of this."

Bella' s face went pale. "What did you say? You're tired of me? Is it because of her?"

She pointed a trembling finger at me. "You chose her over me. After everything. You'll regret this, Connor Smith. You'll come crawling back to me, and I'll make you beg!"

With a final, venomous glare in my direction, she grabbed her coat and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

The silence she left behind was deafening.

I gently pulled my wrist from Connor's loosened grip. "Well," I said softly. "That was something."

He looked at me, his face a mess of conflicting emotions. "I'm sorry, Clementine."

"It's okay," I said, giving his arm a light pat. "Just don't forget to transfer the hundred thousand."

His lips twitched in a faint smile, but it vanished as quickly as it came. His face went ashen, and he pressed a hand to his stomach, a low groan escaping his lips.

I knew that groan. The stress had finally done it. His gastritis was back with a vengeance.

"Sit down," I commanded, my voice shifting back into professional mode.

I guided him to the nearest sofa and pushed him down gently.

"I'll go make you some congee," I said, already heading for the kitchen. "The party's over. The nutritionist is back on the clock."