Chapter 31
title: "Moving Day" wordCount: 2830
The apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River, exposed brick, and a kitchen with a six-burner Wolf range, and my first thought is: maintenance workers don't live like this.
I stand in the doorway with my duffel bag and the cardboard box containing everything I own that matters—my grandmother's recipe notebooks, my good knives, three changes of clothes—and try to reconcile the man who showed up at my restaurant in work boots with this space. The floors are polished concrete. There's a Eames chair by the window that I recognize from a design magazine someone left at Jade Garden once.
"Let's just—" I start, then stop. "This is where you live?"
Daniel sets down the other box, the one with my kitchen equipment. His shoulders are tight. "I'm house-sitting. For a friend who travels."
"What friend?"
"College roommate." He doesn't look at me. "He's in Singapore. Tech job. Asked me to keep an eye on the place."
The lie sits between us like something physical. I walk to the windows, look down at the street twelve floors below. A Tesla is parallel parking. A woman in Lululemon walks a French bulldog.
"Okay so," I say, because my pulse is doing that thing where it gets too fast and I need to slow everything down. "How long is your friend in Singapore?"
"Indefinite assignment."
"And he just lets you live here? Rent-free?"
Daniel's jaw tightens. "We go way back."
I turn to face him. He's standing with his hands in his pockets, that careful blankness on his face again. The same expression from the courthouse, from Mrs. Kowalski's building, from every time I've asked a question that gets too close to something real.
"What's his name?" I ask.
"James." The answer comes too quickly. "James Cho."
"And James Cho owns this apartment."
"Yes."
"In Williamsburg."
"Yes."
"With a Wolf range."
Something flickers across his face. "He likes to cook."
I don't believe him. The apartment is too clean, too impersonal. There are no photos on the walls, no books on the shelves, no coffee rings on the counters. It looks like a hotel room, or a staging setup, or the kind of place someone keeps as an investment property and never actually lives in.
But I need this. The marriage license is filed. The ceremony is in three days. My restaurant's lease renewal depends on me having stable housing, and this address—this building with its doorman and its key fobs and its lobby that smells like expensive candles—will look very good on paper.
"Which room is mine?" I ask.
Relief crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it. "This way."
The guest room has a queen bed with white linens, a dresser, and nothing else. There's a bathroom attached—subway tile, rainfall shower, the kind of fixtures that cost more than my monthly rent used to.
Daniel hovers in the doorway. "I cleared out the closet. And there are extra towels under the sink."
"Thanks."
"The kitchen is—you can use anything. I don't really cook."
"I noticed." I set my duffel on the bed. "No food in the fridge. Just energy drinks and string cheese."
"I eat out a lot."
"That's expensive."
His hand goes to his pocket, then stops. "I manage."
I unzip the duffel, start pulling out clothes. He's still standing there, watching me like he's not sure what to do with his hands. The jade bracelet on my wrist catches the light from the window, and I see him notice it.
"That's pretty," he says.
"My grandmother's." I fold a shirt, set it on the bed. "She gave it to me when I graduated culinary school. Said it would keep me safe."
"Did it?"
"I'm here, right?" I look at him. "Married to a stranger in an apartment that doesn't make sense."
He flinches. "Nora—"
"I'm not asking." I pull out another shirt. "You said you needed this marriage for something urgent. I said I needed stable housing and a way to keep my restaurant. We both get what we need. That's the arrangement."
"Right."
"But Daniel?" I stop folding, meet his eyes. "If this is going to work, you can't look at me like that every time I ask a normal question."
"Like what?"
"Like you're afraid I'm going to figure something out."
He goes very still. For a long moment, he just stands there, and I can see him deciding something. Then he nods once, sharp. "I'll try."
It's not a promise. It's not even really an answer. But it's something.
"Okay," I say. "So. House rules?"
We end up at the kitchen island with notebooks, like we're college roommates instead of fake spouses. Daniel makes a list in neat block letters. I write in the margins of one of my grandmother's recipe books, between her notes on proper wonton folding.
"Quiet hours?" he asks.
"I'm up at four for prep work. You?"
"I work from home. Flexible schedule."
"Doing what?"
His pen pauses. "Consulting."
"For?"
"Various clients."
I draw a line through 'quiet hours' on my page. "So that's a no on specifics."
"It's boring work. Spreadsheets and projections."
"In Singapore."
"What?"
"Your friend James. He's in Singapore doing tech work, right? Is that the kind of consulting you do?"
Daniel sets down his pen. "Can we just—let's focus on the practical stuff."
There it is again. That pivot away from anything real. I want to push, want to ask why a consultant needs to marry a stranger, why his uncle is calling about some garden, why he looked so afraid at the courthouse. But I also want this apartment, this address, this chance to save Jade Garden.
"Fine," I say. "Practical stuff. I cook. You clean up after?"
"Deal."
"I need the kitchen from four to six AM, Monday through Saturday."
"That works."
"And I'm going to meal prep on Sundays. Big batches. Freezer stuff."
He looks up. "For the restaurant?"
"For us." I tap my pen against the notebook. "You're eating string cheese for dinner. That's not sustainable."
"I can handle it."
"You're going to get scurvy."
"That's not—" He stops, and something that might be a smile tugs at his mouth. "Okay. Fine. You can meal prep."
"I'm going to make you lunch boxes."
"What?"
"Lunch boxes. Like bento. Balanced meals, proper portions." I'm already planning it in my head—proteins and vegetables and rice, things that reheat well, things that will make him stop looking so tired. "You're too thin."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And you're going to eat what I make, right?"
He stares at me. "Why?"
"Because we're married." The words feel strange in my mouth. "Or we will be. And I'm a chef. It's what I do."
For a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll eat your lunch boxes."
Something warm unfolds in my chest, unexpected and dangerous. I look down at my notebook, at my grandmother's handwriting in the margins. A good meal is an act of love, she wrote once, in Chinese characters I had to ask my mother to translate. Feed people well and they will remember you.
"Good," I say. "Now. Bathroom schedule."
We're halfway through negotiating shower times when someone knocks on the door.
Daniel's whole body goes tense. "I'm not expecting anyone."
"Should I—"
"Stay here." He stands, walks to the door, checks the peephole. Then his shoulders drop and he opens it. "James."
"Surprise!" A man breezes in carrying a bottle of wine that I recognize from a Food & Wine article about hundred-dollar Burgundies. He's wearing a suit without a tie, expensive watch, hair styled with product. "Heard you finally did it. Had to meet the wife."
He sees me and grins. Crosses the room with his hand extended. "James Cho. Daniel's best friend and—" He catches himself. "And college roommate."
I shake his hand. "Nora Chen."
"The chef. Daniel told me about your restaurant." James sets the wine on the counter. "Jade Garden, right? I've been meaning to try it."
"You should. We do a good mapo tofu."
"I'll hold you to that." He turns to Daniel. "So. You're really doing this."
"We talked about this," Daniel says quietly.
"I know. I just—" James looks at me, then back at Daniel. "It's really happening."
There's something in his voice. Not disapproval, exactly. More like concern, or maybe pity. Like he knows something I don't, and he's watching me walk into a trap.
"The wedding's Friday," I say. "City Hall. Small ceremony."
"I'm invited, right?" James asks Daniel.
"If you want."
"Of course I want. Someone needs to be there for—" He stops. "For both of you."
Daniel's phone buzzes. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and his face goes carefully blank again. "I need to take this."
He walks to the bedroom, closes the door. James watches him go, then turns to me with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"So," he says. "How'd you two meet?"
"He came into my restaurant."
"And it was love at first sight?"
"Something like that."
James picks up the wine bottle, examines the label. "Daniel's a good guy. Bit intense sometimes. Carries a lot on his shoulders."
"What kind of consulting does he do?"
"Oh, you know. Corporate stuff." James sets down the bottle. "Boring meetings. Spreadsheets. The usual."
"He said you're in Singapore."
"What?"
"Tech job. That's why he's house-sitting your apartment."
James blinks. Then something crosses his face—understanding, maybe, or resignation. "Right. Singapore. The tech job."
"How long have you been there?"
"Few months now." He's a terrible liar. His eyes keep darting to the bedroom door. "It's great. Really great. Lots of—tech."
I lean against the counter. "This is your apartment."
"Yes."
"With the Wolf range."
"I like to cook."
"What's your favorite thing to make?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. "Pasta?"
"What kind?"
"The—Italian kind."
I almost laugh. "You've never used that range, have you?"
"Listen—" James runs a hand through his styled hair. "Daniel's my best friend. Has been since we were kids. And whatever he told you, whatever story he's selling—" He stops, looks at the bedroom door again. "Just. Be patient with him, okay? He's doing his best."
"His best at what?"
"At not completely screwing this up."
The bedroom door opens. Daniel comes out, his face tight. "Richard wants to meet."
James goes very still. "When?"
"Tomorrow. Lunch."
"Are you going to—"
"I don't have a choice." Daniel looks at me. "I'm sorry. I need to go handle something."
"Now?"
"It's urgent."
"Everything with you is urgent," I say, and it comes out sharper than I intended.
He flinches. "I know. I'm sorry. I'll be back in a few hours."
"Should I—"
"Stay here. Make yourself at home." He grabs his jacket from the back of the Eames chair. "James can keep you company."
"Daniel—" James starts.
"Please."
They look at each other. Some silent conversation passes between them. Then James sighs. "Fine. But you owe me."
"I know."
Daniel leaves. The door clicks shut behind him. I'm alone with James and the hundred-dollar wine and the apartment that doesn't make sense.
"So," James says. "Want to order Thai food and I'll tell you embarrassing stories about Daniel in college?"
"I want you to tell me what's really going on."
He picks up the wine bottle again. "I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He meets my eyes. "But I can tell you this: Daniel's not a bad guy. He's just—complicated. And whatever he's gotten himself into, he's trying to do the right thing."
"By lying to me?"
"By protecting you."
"From what?"
James just shakes his head. "That's his story to tell. Not mine."
James leaves after an hour of deflection and small talk. I'm alone in the apartment with my boxes and my questions and the growing certainty that I've agreed to something much bigger than a simple arrangement.
I unpack slowly. Hang my clothes in the closet. Set my knives on the kitchen counter. Put my grandmother's recipe notebooks on the shelf by the window. The jade bracelet catches the light, and I think about what she said when she gave it to me: This will keep you safe, but only if you're smart enough to see danger coming.
I'm not sure I'm that smart.
By six PM, I'm restless. I do what I always do when I need to think: I cook.
The Wolf range is beautiful. Six burners, a griddle, double ovens. I find eggs in the fridge—actual eggs, not just string cheese—and some wilted scallions, garlic, a bottle of soy sauce. There's rice in the pantry, jasmine, good quality.
I make fried rice. Simple. Comforting. The kind of thing my grandmother taught me when I was seven, standing on a stool at her stove.
Daniel comes home to the smell of garlic and soy sauce. I hear the door open, his footsteps on the concrete floor. He appears in the kitchen doorway, still wearing his jacket, and stops.
"You cooked," he says.
"I told you. It's what I do."
"It smells—" He stops. "Really good."
"Sit."
He sits at the island. I plate the rice, add a fried egg on top, sprinkle scallions. Set it in front of him with chopsticks.
"Eat," I say.
He picks up the chopsticks. Takes a bite. His eyes close.
"Okay?" I ask.
"It's perfect."
I make a plate for myself, sit across from him. We eat in silence. Outside, the sun is setting over the East River, painting the exposed brick orange and gold.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "About earlier. Running out like that."
"Was it about your uncle?"
His chopsticks pause. "Yes."
"The one Mrs. Kowalski mentioned."
"Richard. He's—" Daniel sets down the chopsticks. "He's my father's brother. Runs the family business."
"What business?"
"Real estate development."
Something clicks. "CoreStone Development."
He looks up sharply. "How do you—"
"Mrs. Kowalski said your uncle works there. And you got tense when she mentioned it." I take another bite of rice. "So. Real estate development. That's the family business."
"Yes."
"And you work there too."
"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated."
"I know."
"Are you going to tell me what's actually going on?"
He looks at me across the island. The setting sun catches his face, and I can see how tired he is. How young. He can't be more than twenty-eight, twenty-nine, but he carries himself like someone much older.
"Not yet," he says. "I'm sorry. I just—not yet."
I should push. Should demand answers. Should protect myself the way my grandmother taught me. But there's something in his face, some genuine exhaustion, that makes me pause.
"Okay," I say. "But Daniel? Eventually, you're going to have to trust me."
"I know."
"Because this—" I gesture between us. "This only works if we're honest with each other."
"I know," he says again. Then: "Can you teach me?"
"Teach you what?"
"To cook. Like this." He looks down at his empty plate. "I want to learn."
It's such an unexpected request that I almost laugh. "You want cooking lessons?"
"If you're willing."
"Why?"
"Because—" He stops. "Because you're right. I can't live on string cheese. And because—" Another pause. "Because I want to."
There's something vulnerable in his voice. Something real, for the first time since I met him.
"Okay," I say. "Tomorrow. I'll teach you to make dumplings."
"Dumplings."
"My grandmother's recipe. Fair warning: they're labor-intensive."
"I can handle it."
"We'll see."
He smiles. It's small, barely there, but it's genuine. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. I'm a tough teacher."
We clean up together. He washes, I dry. It's domestic and strange and almost comfortable. When we're done, he says goodnight and disappears into his room. I go to mine, close the door, lie on the white sheets in the dark.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic, nothing else.
I pull out my phone. Open the browser. Type: CoreStone Development.
Before I can hit search, I hear his voice through the wall. Low. Tense.
"I don't care what the board wants, Richard." A pause. "I'm not selling the garden."
I freeze. Press my ear to the wall.
"Because it matters to people. Because—" His voice drops lower. I strain to hear. "No. I told you. The marriage is real. She's—" Another pause. "That's none of your business."
My heart is pounding. I should stop listening. Should give him privacy. But I can't move.
"I don't care about the optics." His voice is rising now. "I care about doing the right thing. For once in my life, I'm—" He stops. "Don't threaten me. You don't have that power anymore."
Silence. Then:
"Because I'm getting married, Richard. And according to the trust, that means—"
The rest is too quiet to hear. I press harder against the wall, holding my breath, and—