---- Chapter 8 Hector Porter POV: The news story broke the next day, exactly as | had planned. The headline was nauseatingly saccharine: "Tech Mogul Hector Porter Finds Love After Tragedy with Loyal Assistant Helene Rojas." The accompanying photo was a masterpiece of curated domestic bliss. Me, Helene, and Jacob, walking out of his private school. Helene was holding Jacob' s hand, laughing down at him, the picture of maternal adoration. | had my hand on her shoulder, a stoic, protective look on my face. It was a lie, every pixel of it. The moment had been carefully staged. | felt nothing for Helene but a growing irritation. But for the world, and more importantly, for Almeda, we were the perfect family. | had Mark leak the story to a specific list of online publications | knew Almeda frequented for her culinary research. There was no way she could miss it. Then, | waited. | checked my phone every five minutes, expecting a call, a text, a furious email. Anything. Silence. ---- | sat in my office, the city lights twinkling below, the silence stretching into an unbearable roar. Why wasn't she reacting? Did she not care? Was it possible that after six years, she had felt absolutely nothing for me? The thought was a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. It was an insult to my pride, my ego, my very sense of self. | was Hector Porter. Women didn't just walk away from me. They certainly didn't do it with a serene smile while | was left to feel... this. This hollow, aching void. | called Mark. "Is the story trending? | want more coverage. Boost it. Pay whatever you have to." The days that followed were a blur of manufactured happiness. Helene, emboldened by the public declaration, moved into the guest room "to be closer to Jacob." She was constantly at my side, playing the role of the devoted partner to perfection. She redecorated parts of the house, replacing Almeda's understated, elegant choices with gaudy, ostentatious pieces. Every change she made felt like a desecration. One evening, | came downstairs for dinner. Helene and Jacob were at the table. She was patiently peeling shrimp for him, a task Almeda used to perform with quiet efficiency. "Helene, you're the best!" Jacob said, his mouth full. "| wish you were my real mom." ---- An image surfaced in my memory with brutal clarity. Almeda, sitting in that same spot, peeling shrimp for Jacob. He had refused to let her, screaming that her hands were "dirty" and that he would do it himself, only to end up with a plate of mangled shrimp he couldn't eat. Almeda had said nothing, simply taken his plate, peeled them for him while he wasn't looking, and put them back. He had eaten every one, never knowing. Awave of something heavy and suffocating washed over me. Guilt. It was guilt. "Jacob," | said, my voice sharper than | intended. "Don't say that." He pouted. "But it's true! | want Helene to marry you, Daddy! Then we can be a real family!" Helene looked at me, her eyes wide and hopeful, a calculated vulnerability on her face. "Oh, Jacob, you're so sweet. | would love nothing more than to be your mother and take care of you and your daddy forever." She then turned her gaze to me, her meaning clear. She was proposing. The idea was repulsive. Marrying this woman, this pale imitation of my dead wife, this caricature of a mother? The thought made my stomach turn. Before | could formulate a response, Jacob' s face suddenly went pale. He made a gagging sound, his hands flying to his throat. He slid from his chair and collapsed onto the floor, his ---- body convulsing. "Jacob!" | yelled, terror seizing me. | rushed to his side. His face was swelling, his lips turning blue. He was struggling to breathe. Anaphylactic shock. Helene stood frozen, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. "What's happening?" | didn't have time to answer. | scooped Jacob into my arms and ran for the door, screaming at my security team to get the car. The nearest hospital was ten minutes away. As we sped through the streets, Jacob's breathing grew more ragged. | looked at the food on the table in my mind's eye. The shrimp. The sauce Helene had made. There must have been peanuts. A cross-contamination. Something Almeda would never, ever have allowed to happen.