My Poor Wife Buys The Manny An Expensive Mansion

[This month’s property management fee is $1,500. Please make the payment on time.]

My wife, Grace Anderson’s phone screen lit up. I glanced at it and then took the phone.

“Did the management office miscalculate this? Our management fee should only total up to $28 a month.”

Grace stood up abruptly and tried to snatch her phone back.

“He must’ve miscalculated! Let me talk to him.”

However, I had already clicked on the link and read the page.

[Cloud Mansion, property owner: Ken Smith.]

The young male nanny cooking in our kitchen had the same name.

Something snapped in my brain.

The three of us were living in a very small house, but Grace had bought a mansion for our manny!

Grace Anderson snatched her phone back and immediately locked it.

I watched her reaction and said coldly, “Cloud Mansion’s under Ken Smith’s name, but the property management office sent the text message to you instead.

“Do you want to explain that?”

She slammed her phone against the table with the screen down and took a sip of water before saying, “I’m purchasing a property for my relative, and I wanted to use a discount that’s only available for the lower-income group, so I borrowed Ken’s ID for that. My relative left the country a while back, so he asked me to take care of it on his behalf.”

“Which relative?”

“You don’t know him. It’s a distant uncle.”

She was lying.

Over our decade-long marriage, I had met all of her relatives. No one fit the profile of a distant relative.

I wanted to pry further, but she looked upset.

“Are you assuming that I bought the mansion for Ken?

“You know how much I earn! If I really had that much money, we would’ve moved to the city center already.”

She looked calm when she said that. She even served our son a bowl of soup as she did.

The noise from the kitchen stopped. Ken walked out with a plate of grilled ribs.

“Sam, here are all the dishes. Enjoy your meal! I’m going to head home to take care of my daughter.

“Just leave the plates and utensils in the kitchen. I’ll wash them tomorrow morning.”

He was unaware of what had happened a while ago. He took off his apron and put on his shoes before leaving.

He did not even look at Grace.

The only interaction they had was when he walked past me and placed the plate of grilled ribs in front of Grace.

It was his best dish.

Back then, we interviewed a dozen nannies of various ages and genders.

Not only did he know how to make Grace’s favorite grilled ribs, but he also knew how to make my son’s and my favorite pasta dish.

He claimed to be from the countryside with little education. He was four years younger than me and was a single father with a daughter.

I felt sorry for him. Besides, he was asking only half