Chapter 3 Strawberry Cake and Hidden Cameras

# Chapter 3: Strawberry Cake and Hidden Cameras

Three weeks after the funeral, I still hadn't moved out of the Mitchell house. Each time I mentioned finding my own place, Mrs. Mitchell would tear up, insisting that I was "family" now, even without Robert. Mr. Mitchell would nod gravely, though I suspected he was simply avoiding his wife's displeasure rather than genuinely wanting me there.

The truth was more complicated: I had nowhere else to go. I'd given up my apartment when Robert and I got engaged, sold most of my furniture, and been living in this mausoleum of memories ever since. My old life had been dismantled piece by piece, replaced with the promise of becoming Mrs. Robert Mitchell—a promise now broken.

I was standing in front of the refrigerator late one night, staring at its contents without really seeing them, when Jake's voice startled me.

"Midnight snack?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

I closed the door quickly. "Just water."

Jake crossed the kitchen and reopened the fridge, examining its pristine organization. "You know, I've always found it strange how this fridge is always full but never has anything worth eating."

"Your mother has very specific tastes," I said diplomatically.

"My mother has Robert's tastes," Jake corrected. "Or rather, Robert inherited hers."

He pulled out a pitcher of filtered water and poured us each a glass. As I sipped mine, I noticed him studying me over the rim of his glass.

"You've lost weight," he said abruptly.

I shrugged. "I haven't had much of an appetite."

"Bullshit." The word was sharp in the quiet kitchen. "You're still living by his rules. I saw you push away the dessert at dinner tonight when Mother offered it."

"I don't like chocolate mousse," I lied.

"Another lie." Jake set his glass down with more force than necessary. "I remember your birthday dinner last year. You looked at the dessert cart like it was salvation before Robert ordered you fruit instead."

The memory stung. It had been my thirtieth birthday, and yes, I'd wanted the chocolate cake with raspberry filling. But Robert had reminded me of our upcoming engagement photoshoot, suggesting fresh berries would be a "wiser choice."

"It doesn't matter anymore," I said quietly.

Jake's expression softened. "It matters more now than ever." He glanced at his watch. "Wait here. I need to get something from my car."

Before I could protest, he was gone, leaving me standing awkwardly in the kitchen. I considered retreating to my room, but curiosity kept me rooted in place. Five minutes later, I heard the front door open and close, followed by strange scraping sounds.

Jake reappeared in the doorway, struggling to maneuver what looked like a small cart. My jaw dropped as he pushed it fully into the kitchen light, revealing a miniature dessert trolley laden with pastries, cakes, and confections.

"What is this?" I asked, unable to hide my astonishment.

"This," Jake said with a flourish, "is freedom. I stopped by that French bakery on Maple Street. They were just closing up, and the owner was about to donate these to a shelter. I convinced her to make a slight detour."

I approached the cart cautiously, as if the treats might disappear if I moved too quickly. There were éclairs dripping with chocolate, lemon tarts dusted with powdered sugar, cream puffs, macarons in rainbow colors, and at the center, a small but perfect strawberry cake topped with fresh berries and a delicate chocolate curl.

"Jake," I breathed, "this is insane."

"No," he countered, pulling out a chair for me at the kitchen island. "What's insane is denying yourself simple pleasures because my brother decided they weren't good for his image of you."

He placed a small plate in front of me and gestured to the cart. "Choose your poison."

I hesitated, years of conditioning making me pause.

"He's not here," Jake reminded me gently. "And even if he was, what would he do? Put you on a diet? Oh wait, he already did that."

The bitterness in his voice surprised me. "You really didn't like him very much, did you?"

Jake's expression grew serious. "I loved my brother. But loving someone doesn't mean being blind to their faults. Robert needed to control everything around him, including you. Especially you."

He picked up a fork and cut a small piece from the strawberry cake, holding it out to me. "So, what's it going to be, Emma? His rules from beyond the grave, or your own choices?"

I stared at the fork, the moist cake, the glistening strawberries. Then, with a decisive movement, I opened my mouth and let Jake feed me the bite. The flavors exploded on my tongue—sweet, tart, rich, and delicate all at once. I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation.

When I opened them, Jake was watching me with an intensity that made my cheeks warm.

"Good?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Amazing," I admitted.

For the next hour, we worked our way through the dessert cart, sampling everything, laughing at the mess we made, and comparing favorites. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so free, so unburdened. Jake told me stories about his travels, his failed attempts at various careers, his perpetual status as the family disappointment.

"Robert always knew exactly what he wanted," Jake said, licking chocolate from his thumb. "From the time we were kids, he had a plan. The right school, the right career, the right wife."

"And you?" I asked.

"I wanted everything. Which, according to my father, means I wanted nothing worthwhile." He shrugged, but I could see the old hurt beneath the casual gesture. "Robert focused like a laser beam. I scattered like shotgun pellets."

By two in the morning, we were surrounded by empty plates and crumpled napkins. I felt slightly ill from the sugar overload but wonderfully, gloriously alive. Jake had loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms dusted with dark hair. He looked younger, less guarded.

"I should clean this up before your parents wake up," I said, reluctantly beginning to gather plates.

"Leave it," Jake insisted. "I'll deal with it."

"Your mother will have a fit if she sees this mess."

"Let her." His smile was mischievous. "I'm thirty-four years old. If I want to eat cake at two in the morning with a beautiful woman, that's my business."

The compliment caught me off guard. Robert had called me many things—elegant, suitable, appropriate—but rarely beautiful, and never so casually.

"Thank you," I said, suddenly shy. "For all of this."

"My pleasure." Jake stood, stretching. "Consider it the first of many jailbreaks."

I helped him cover the remaining desserts and store them in the refrigerator despite his protests. As I was arranging them on the top shelf, Jake's phone pinged with a message. I thought nothing of it until I heard his soft curse.

"Everything okay?" I asked, turning around.

"Fine," he said quickly, pocketing his phone. "Just work."

We said goodnight at the base of the stairs, Jake heading to the guest wing where he'd been staying since the funeral, me toward the room I'd shared with Robert during our visits. As I changed into my nightgown, I couldn't stop thinking about the evening—the taste of forbidden sweets, Jake's easy laughter, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

I woke late the next morning, feeling slightly hungover from sugar rather than alcohol. The house was quiet; the Mitchells had mentioned attending a charity brunch. I padded down to the kitchen in my pajamas, craving coffee and perhaps another taste of that wonderful cake.

The kitchen was spotless, no evidence of our midnight feast. Even the dessert cart was gone. For a moment, I wondered if I'd dreamed the whole thing. Then I opened the refrigerator and smiled at the sight of carefully wrapped pastries arranged on the top shelf.

My phone buzzed with a text as I was pouring coffee.

_Missed you at breakfast. Check the fridge, third shelf. Left something for you._

I frowned, opening the refrigerator again. The third shelf held the usual Mitchell fare—organic vegetables, imported cheeses, and—wait. Behind a container of Greek yogurt sat a small cake box that hadn't been there before. I pulled it out and lifted the lid to find a perfect slice of strawberry cake, even more elaborate than last night's version, with "For Emma" written in chocolate on the plate's edge.

I smiled, oddly touched by Jake's thoughtfulness. I was about to text him back when another message came through.

_The cream on your upper lip last night was adorable. Enjoy your breakfast, squirrel._

I froze, my finger hovering over the screen. How did he know I had cream on my lip? He'd left before I'd started eating. Unless...

A chill ran down my spine. I looked around the kitchen slowly, my eyes scanning the corners where ceiling met wall, the light fixtures, the air vents. Nothing seemed out of place, yet the feeling of being watched persisted.

I took my coffee and the cake to the sunroom, away from the kitchen. As I ate, I couldn't shake the unsettling sensation. Jake's text implied he'd seen me eating, but he hadn't been there. The only explanation was cameras, but why would the Mitchells have surveillance inside their own home?

The cake, despite its beauty, now tasted like suspicion on my tongue.

That evening, Jake returned late from work. I cornered him in the hallway, keeping my voice low.

"How did you know about the cream on my lip?" I demanded without preamble.

Jake's expression gave nothing away. "What?"

"Your text this morning. About me having cream on my upper lip. You weren't there when I ate."

He hesitated, just for a second. "I came back for my keys and saw you through the doorway. You didn't notice me."

It was plausible, but something in his eyes—a flicker of calculation—made me doubt him.

"You're lying," I said flatly.

Jake sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Let it go, Emma. It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." I blocked his path when he tried to step around me. "Tell me the truth, Jake. Are there cameras in this house?"

The silence that followed confirmed my suspicions before he spoke.

"Not my idea," he said finally, his voice low. "After Robert's first heart scare two years ago, my parents installed a security system. It includes interior cameras."

"In the kitchen? In the private areas of the house?" I felt violated, exposed. "Did Robert know?"

Jake's expression hardened. "Know? Emma, Robert had the monitoring app on his phone. He could check any camera feed at any time."

The implications hit me like a physical blow. All those times Robert had commented on my late-night snacking, my posture when I thought no one was watching, my phone conversations with friends—he'd been surveilling me. Controlling me even when he wasn't present.

"And you have access to these cameras too," I said, the betrayal fresh and stinging.

Jake at least had the decency to look ashamed. "Yes. The whole family does. It's linked to our phones."

"So last night, the desserts, the conversation—you were what? Testing me? Seeing how I'd behave when I thought no one was watching?"

"No! It wasn't like that." Jake reached for me, but I stepped back. "I genuinely wanted to give you that experience. The text this morning was... a mistake. I shouldn't have revealed that I'd seen you."

I laughed bitterly. "At least you're honest about the wrong part." I turned to go, then stopped. "Delete it."

"What?"

"The app. Delete it now, in front of me."

Jake pulled out his phone, his fingers moving across the screen. "It's not that simple. I can delete the app, but I'd still have access through the web portal."

"Then I guess I'll just have to get used to performing all the time," I said coldly. "Good night, Jake."

I walked away, my mind racing. In my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to process this new information. The house I'd thought of as a refuge, however cold, was actually a cage with glass walls. I'd never truly had privacy here, not even in my most vulnerable moments of grief.

My phone lit up with a message.

_I'm sorry. You deserved better from all of us._

I ignored Jake's text, turning my phone face down on the nightstand. Then, on impulse, I got up and began examining my room, inch by inch. I checked vents, light fixtures, picture frames, searching for the telltale lens of a camera.

I found nothing, but that didn't mean they weren't there, just that they were well hidden. The uncertainty was almost worse than knowing.

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Who was I, really? The perfect, controlled woman Robert had shaped? The rebellious, cake-eating midnight version Jake had witnessed? Or someone else entirely, someone I hadn't yet been allowed to become?

As I brushed my teeth, a new determination settled in my chest. If I was being watched, then I would give them a show they never expected.