Memories Concealed in the Dried Fish Market

“$50 million. Leave the country within a week. And stay away from my son forever.”

Mrs. Harrington sat opposite me, her perfectly maintained face etched with undisguised contempt.

If this were years ago, my eyes would have welled up, and I’d have retorted, “I’m not with him for money.”

But now, I just calmly nodded. “Okay.”

Mrs. Harrington clearly paused, then sneered. “At least you know your place.”

She emphasized those last words, as if highlighting the immense social chasm between her son, Rhys Harrington, and me.

I lowered my gaze, took the check, and turned to leave.