Chapter 1

"Rose! What... what on earth did you put in that crock? Some kind of contraband? You've got every rich person in Dubai beating down the door!"

I untied my apron and calmly wiped the chili oil off my hands.

"Nothing much. Just a few pounds of radishes, a few handfuls of peppers, and the old brine my mother passed down to me."

Someone outside was screaming at the top of his lungs in broken English: "Open the door! I want that! I have money! A hundred thousand dollars! Give me one bowl!"

Mr. Whitaker froze.

So did I.

It was just three crocks of pickles, wasn't it?

Rose Harper felt like her whole life had turned into a joke.

She was fifty-five. Her face was crisscrossed with deep lines, and her hands were as rough as old pine bark.

She had spent three hours in the kitchen and put a full spread on the table: braised pork belly, butter-braised shrimp, steamed sea bass. Every one of them a showpiece dish.

Today was her husband Frank Mason's sixtieth birthday.

With a bang, the front door flew open.

Frank stumbled in drunk, a brand-new red scarf hanging around his neck. Rose clearly hadn't bought it.

Behind him came their daughter, Megan Mason, looking helpless and worn out.

"Dad, you need to drink less. Mom's been waiting for you forever." Megan reached out to steady him.

Frank shook off his daughter's hand and slurred, "Waiting? Who asked her to wait? Frumpy old hag. Just looking at her kills my appetite!"

The chopsticks in Rose's hand trembled slightly, but she said nothing. She only carried the warmed bourbon to the table.

"Frank, let's eat first. The food's getting cold."

Frank eyed the lavish spread sideways, then suddenly let out a cold laugh.

He pulled an elegant velvet box from his pocket and tossed it carelessly onto the table.

Clack.

The box popped open. Inside lay a gleaming gold necklace that had to weigh at least an ounce.

Rose stared, and a rush of warmth filled her chest. Had the old fool finally grown a conscience?

"Is... is that for me?" she asked carefully.

"For you?" Frank acted like he'd heard the funniest joke in the world, doubling over with laughter. "Rose Harper, go take a good look in the mirror! With a face full of wrinkles like that, you think you deserve gold?"

Rose's face instantly flushed a deep, mottled red.

"This is for Lily! Lily's only thirty, and her skin's so soft and fresh you could squeeze water out of it. Now that's a real woman!"

Lily.

The "little sister" he'd met at line-dancing class.

"Frank Mason! Do you have no shame at all?" Rose finally exploded and slammed the dishrag down on the table. "Spending your pension on some floozy! You don't want this marriage anymore, is that it?"

"Then let's end it!"

Frank shot to his feet and, fueled by the liquor, slapped Rose across the face.

Smack!

Sharp and loud.

Megan screamed and rushed over to grab her father. "Dad! Are you crazy? How could you hit Mom?"

Frank jabbed a finger in Rose's face and swore at her. "This house came from my job! The money's what I earned! If you don't want to wait on me, get out right now! Divorce me, and you'll be nothing but a beggar!"

Rose held her cheek. Her ears were ringing.

She looked at the man she had spent thirty years with and suddenly felt he was a complete stranger.

For this family, she had quit her job, cared for his parents until they died, raised their daughter, and waited on him hand and foot as he went from an ordinary factory worker to the retired county official he was now.

And what had it gotten her?

She was treated worse than a dog.

"Mom, don't be upset. Dad's just had too much to drink..." Megan was crying as she reached for her.

Rose gently pushed her daughter's hand away. The look in her eyes went from rage to a deathly calm.

"Meg, I'm not upset."

She turned, went into the bedroom, and dug a worn-out canvas bag from the very bottom of the closet.

It was the only luggage she had.

"Mom, where are you going?" Megan panicked.

"Out for some air."

Rose didn't cry. She just felt that the last thirty years of her life hadn't been worth a damn.

That night, scrolling on her phone in a cheap little motel, she came across a job posting:

[Wealthy family in Dubai seeking live-in housekeeper. $8,000 a month, room and board included. Must be an excellent home cook of good character.]

Eight thousand.

That was four times Frank's pension.

That was the "wages" she had never seen a single cent of in all her years of slaving away for that family.

Early the next morning, she texted her daughter: "Mom's taking a job overseas. Take care of yourself."

Then she blocked Frank everywhere.

The heat in Dubai felt like it could melt a person.

Rose stood at the airport exit with her suitcase, staring at the glittering world in front of her. She felt like she was dreaming.

The driver who came to pick her up wore a black suit and held up a sign that read "HARPER."

The car sped along, through the desert, past skyscrapers that seemed to touch the clouds, and finally stopped in a villa community shaded by green trees.

It was practically a palace.

Every house had a huge garden, fountains splashed and gurgled, and the lawns were so green they looked fake.

Her employer, Richard Whitaker, was a businessman in his forties who seemed friendly enough.

His wife, Diane Whitaker, did not look nearly as friendly.

Mrs. Whitaker wore a silk nightgown and held a curly-haired dog in her arms as she looked Rose up and down.

Rose was wearing a floral blouse she'd bought on Temu and a pair of old cloth slip-ons. Her graying hair was pulled back into a messy knot.

The picture of an old country woman.

"Rich, this is the gold-star housekeeper your agency recommended?" Mrs. Whitaker frowned and covered her nose. "Why does she smell like dirt?"

Rose rubbed her hands together awkwardly. "Good afternoon, ma'am. I... I just got off the plane. I haven't had a chance to shower."

"All right, all right, don't come near me." Mrs. Whitaker waved her off in disgust. "I fired the last housekeeper for helping herself to the caviar. I'll be blunt with you: if you have sticky fingers, you're out the door that same day."

Rose straightened her back. "Don't worry, ma'am. I may be poor, but I've never taken anything that wasn't mine."

"Talk is cheap." Mrs. Whitaker gave a cold snort. "Go make dinner. We have guests tonight. If the food isn't good, you can buy a plane ticket home tomorrow morning."

It was a warning shot.

Rose said nothing. She picked up her bag and went into the housekeeper's room.

She changed into a clean apron, washed her hands, and went into the kitchen.

The kitchen alone was bigger than her whole house back home. The double-door refrigerator was packed with imported ingredients: Australian lobster, M9 wagyu, deep-sea grouper...

Rose took a deep breath.

She thought of the mocking look in Frank's eyes.

She thought of that gold necklace that wasn't meant for her.

"I'll show them what I'm made of," she muttered through gritted teeth.

She didn't touch any of the expensive imported ingredients. Instead, she took out a slab of pork belly, a sea bass, and a few bunches of greens.

That was where her real skill lay.

She set the pan on the stove and heated the oil.