The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 8

“Didn’t you change your clothes last night? You smell like sweat.”

He had driven Rebecca home, probably staying with her until dawn before grabbing these flowers on his way back, a pathetic attempt to soothe his minuscule conscience.

“Do I?” Zebulon sniffed his shirt. “Oh, right. I drove out to the flower fields at dawn and waited for them to open so I could get you the freshest roses.”

Penelope wanted to roll her eyes. The flowers were clearly from the shop across the street; the florist’s logo was still on the wrapping paper.

She didn’t call him out on it, instead offering a sweet smile. “Thank you, honey.”

“Wait for me. I’m just going to take a quick shower, and then I’m taking you somewhere,” Zebulon said.

“But I have to go to the office today.”

“The office will survive without you. We haven’t had a proper date in ages.”

“But today—”

“Just wait.”

Before she could protest further, Zebulon was already heading upstairs. Watching him go, Penelope smirked. This was his way of keeping her from work.

Fine. She’d play along. Let’s see what other tricks they had up their sleeves.

An hour later, Zebulon was driving her down a narrow alleyway in the old part of the city. To put it nicely, the area was “full of life.” To be blunt, it was a chaotic mess of illegal structures, poor sanitation, and non-existent traffic laws.

But three years ago, this was where they had lived.

Back then, she didn’t know who he was. They were both just junior employees at Stone Group, living on entry-level salaries. To save money, they rented a small apartment in this dilapidated neighborhood, far from the office. A one-bedroom flat for eight hundred a month.

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