Coffee in hand, she strolled to the living room, waiting for her lover to emerge. She needed to shower away the night’s passion before school. She’d had the foresight to pack some clothes, art supplies, and textbooks so she could go straight to Gramercy Park from the Upper East Side. Perhaps Gabe’s driver, Oleg, could drop her off on the way to the financial district? She felt a flutter of anxiety at the thought of her classmates seeing her exit the impressive town car. What would they think? She didn’t care. There was no need to be ashamed of this relationship, not anymore.

Walking through the apartment, she moved to the window that looked out over Park Avenue. It was 6:10 A.M., according to the coffee machine. The street was quiet, dim, damp from overnight rain. The occasional car whisked past, cabs mostly, their tires inaudible from this height. The scene was dreamlike, a fantasy: the multimillion-dollar apartment, the tony address, the powerful man in the shower. And, at the window, the small-town girl with the messy past. Nat was incongruous with her surroundings, but she was strangely comfortable here. She let herself try it on, and she liked it. It felt right.

The shower turned off, and she moved back toward the kitchen. Having mastered the high-tech coffee machine, she could bring her boyfriend a cappuccino. But as she was passing the flat-screen TV perched on a lacquered black table, something caught her eye. Behind the device was a stack of picture frames, facedown, their velvet backs and stands just visible. Had Gabe hidden these photographs away from her view? Her pulse quickened.

Before she could think better of it, she reached for the top frame, turned it over. It was a high school photo, a girl in a black top, with dark hair and flawless skin. Her face was free of makeup, but her beauty emanated from the photograph like phosphorescence. Printed at the bottom of the photo was:

VIOLET TURNMILL

SENIOR CLASS

THE FAIRHAVEN SCHOOL

This was the daughter Gabe had mentioned.

Nat stared at the girl, dismissing the uncomfortable feeling tickling her belly. Violet’s natural look and septum piercing were in keeping with her anti–foie gras, pro-chickpea stance. The name of the school was not familiar—why would it be? Nat had gone to a public school, knew nothing about the world of elite private education, of Ivy League prep. But Violet’s must have been an artsy school, fostering free expression and creativity. Nat had expected a school uniform, had envisioned a preppy blonde with her father’s blue eyes.

Hurriedly, Nat reached for the next photo. It featured Violet, Gabe, and a striking black woman with full, natural curls. She was clearly Violet’s mother; their resemblance was evident. Why did Gabe keep a framed photo of his ex in his apartment? Nat’s heart was pounding, her stomach fluttering as she turned over the next frame. Gabe and the same stunning woman—younger, even more beautiful—with baby Violet.

Nat knew that not all divorces were filled with hate and ugliness like that of her parents. Gabe would have kept good relations with his ex for the sake of his daughter. He would have displayed these photos for the same reason. But the sick feeling in her gut was creeping its way into Nat’s throat. Was it jealousy? Envy? Nat wasn’t sure of the difference, but she felt insecure, threatened, possessive as she stared at the two females.