My Skin Needs Touch, Their Stomachs Turn novel Chapter 89

Chapter 3

I started packing. There wasn’t much to pack. After three years in this so-called home, the things that truly

belonged to me were pitifully few.

The walk-in closet was enormous. The left side was filled with Ethan’s custom-tailored suits. Several

cabinets on the right were locked. That’s where the jewelry and designer bags were kept.

The keys and fingerprint access were all with Sophie. Every time there was a banquet, I had to apply to

Sophie like I was borrowing a prop. After using it, I had to return it.

Once, I accidentally spilled red wine on the hem of an evening gown. In front of the entire household staff, Sophie insisted I write a formal letter of accountability, detailing my “carelessness” and “lack of respect for

the value of the property.”

By the end of the same day, I was notified that my upcoming month’s “personal stipend” would be withheld as a “consequence of negligence.”

Ethan stood nearby, observing without intervention. “Sophie’s just helping you understand the responsibility

that comes with this lifestyle.”

“These pieces aren’t just clothes, they’re investments. You can’t afford to treat them lightly.”

He was right. I couldn’t afford any of it. In their world, I was just the orphan they’d allowed in, forever the

outsider, forever “less than.”

I opened my own little corner. Inside hung a few pilled sweaters and some faded, worn-out jeans. The only decent item was that white T-shirt I wore three years ago when I married into this family.

Back then, I wasn’t Mrs. Crawford. I was the youngest physics graduate student at University of North Bay, a promising genius. Ethan said he loved the cool, aloof aura about me.

He said, “Summer, marry me. I’ll give you a home.” I believed him. I gave up the chance to study abroad. I ignored my mentor’s pleas to stay. I washed my hands and prepared his soup, turning myself into a laughingstock in this gilded cage.

I peeled off the “discount-rack clothes” Ethan had always sneered at and slipped into the faded white tee from what felt like another lifetime. The jeans hung loose around my hips. Three years in this house had quietly stripped more than twenty pounds from my frame.

I pulled out a worn suitcase. I put in a few books, some photographs, and my father’s ashes. Beyond that, nothing in this mansion had anything to do with me.

I walked downstairs. The housekeeper, Mrs. Green, was polishing a vase. Seeing me with my suitcase, she

Chapter 3

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rolled her eyes. “Running away again, Ma’am?”

“Mr. Crawford was clear,” she said, not bothering to look up from her polishing. “If you walk out that door today, don’t expect it to open for you again. Oh, and he’ll be expecting soup for dinner.”

In this house, even the housekeeper held me in quiet contempt. They all knew the truth: I might have been

called Mrs. Crawford, but I didn’t hold any real authority. My monthly “allowance” was a carefully calculated

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