“You’re good with her.” The door clicks shut behind Kim, smiling at how you startle, almost jostling Rose in your lap—though the one-year old remains, blissfully, for all parties involved—asleep.

Her parents said Kim was colicky, too, when she was a kid. It makes sense that karma would come back round, in the form of her own. She wasn't, however, expecting karma to hit her quite so hard. Ever since—what was her name? Danielle? She's revoked paying for Max's anything. He's been sleeping in the apartment-turned-bachelor-pad they have in SoHo. It's under her name, mind you.

She feels cheated—besides the obvious cheating. Kim was so young, and yet, her husband had waited until she had birthed his daughter before he began fooling around with girls who hadn't even finished uni. It's particularly cruel of him, and she's loathe to think she thought he hadn't a callous bone in his body.

Divorce is out of question. She'll be damned if she lets Max turn her into a single mother.

You're a good babysitter. Maybe that has something to do with the hefty amount of digits she transfers to your account. She savours that wide-eyed sparkle, the vehement shake of your head as if that would stop her fingers from moving. It's one of her silent fuck you's to her husband, whose access to her funds have been thoroughly revoked. She supposes she can see why it gave him so much of a high.

Kim thinks her money's going to good use, now. She's fond of you; would give you a proper, entry-level job at her company if you asked. She'd see you more that way—but there's something about the domesticity in how you rock Rose in your arms, setting her into the cot, calming her in a way Max never could. How your face glows warmly under the dimmed overhead lights, that lets an idle "Join me for a drink?", slip.

Kim doesn't have a habit of sharing wine with lovely, fresh-faced young girls with bright eyes and even brighter prospects. Perhaps, though, she'll take a leaf out of her husband's book.

It's only fair.