But he wasn't looking at her. He was staring straight at me.
Those eyes were ice-cold—a silent warning not to expose anything.
Looking at him like that, the bitterness I'd been choking back finally broke free.
"Miles, don't you think you owe me an explanation?"
The moment I spoke, Stacy whipped around, her face a picture of surprise.
"Oh! So you're not the cleaning lady?"
She paused, as if something had just clicked. "Ah, I get it now. You must be Marilyn Swanson."
I froze, about to ask how she knew my name, when she continued:
"You're always calling Miles, aren't you? I was right there listening the whole time."
"I know all about you two. I know you've had a crush on him for years." She tilted her head, eyes wide with mock innocence. "But I never imagined you'd actually have the nerve to show up at our home."
Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. My ears rang. Everything around me seemed to lose its sound.
So that was why. Every time I'd called Miles, every video chat—he'd always said he was busy, his voice impatient, rushing me to hang up, telling me not to bother him.
Stacy had been right there beside him the entire time.