Chapter 3

By early evening, Desmond came home carrying a bag of groceries.

I'd changed into a loose beige knit cardigan, my face pale as I leaned against the couch.

Scattered across the coffee table were a few bottles of vitamins and sleep aids.

Hearing the door open, I braced myself on the armrest and stood up.

"Sweetheart, you're home." I swayed slightly, feigning dizziness.

Desmond immediately dropped the grocery bag and strode over to steady me.

"Sera, what's wrong? Have you been overworking yourself with this city project? I told you, leave the design work to yourself, but don't push yourself so hard."

"Maybe I really have been overdoing it."

"It's okay. I'm here."

He pulled me against his chest.

I thought back to that winter five years ago, when the flu had swept through and I'd burned with a 104-degree fever. He'd stayed by my bedside all night, every night, pressing cool washcloths against my forehead over and over.

Back then, I believed he'd shield me from every storm this world could throw at us.

The more I used to lean on this embrace, the more nauseating it felt now.

He helped me settle onto the couch, then turned and headed into the kitchen.

Before long, the clatter of pots and pans mixed with the aroma of seafood drifted through the air.

He tied on the printed apron I'd once given him and made my favorite seafood pasta, even thoughtfully pouring a cup of warm chamomile tea and setting it beside me.

"You must be starving. Eat up." He set the plate in front of me, carefully tucking a napkin over my lap so the sauce wouldn't stain my clothes.

I picked up my fork, twirling a small bite of pasta, about to bring it to my mouth, when I casually threw out my bait.

"Desmond, what time did you actually get home last night? I waited up for you, but I couldn't stay awake any longer."

His hand, mid-pour with the red wine, paused for a fraction of a second before he waved it off with a smile.

"Just had a few drinks with some old friends, talked shop about the project. Came home pretty quick after."

"You were sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to wake you, so I didn't turn on the lights."

"Is that so?"

My fork froze midair, and I glanced up at him with a faint, knowing smile.

"Funny, I remember waiting for you until almost three."

Desmond's expression stiffened for just a beat, his fingers tightening slightly around the wine glass.

"Ah... must've had one too many. Got caught up talking, lost track of time."

He gave an awkward little laugh, his fingers absently rubbing along the rim of the glass—a nervous habit I knew all too well after eight years of marriage.

I used to think that little gesture was endearing. Now it just felt like a cruel joke.

"Next time, I'll make sure to come home earlier for you."

I let out a soft "hmm" and lowered my head to keep eating, though inside, everything had gone cold with clarity.

He really had gotten smooth with his lies.

Just then, his phone buzzed on the corner of the table.

Almost instinctively, he flipped it face-down in one swift motion, the screen's glow flashing across his face for barely half a second—so quick it seemed almost like an illusion.

"Who's that?" I asked, feigning casualness as I took a sip of tea.

"Work stuff. Nothing important."

"Sera, there's something I need to talk to you about." He sat across from me and took my hand.

"Look at the state you're in—I'm genuinely worried. The city project is about to launch in full force, and the entertaining and financial coordination coming up is going to be a heavy load. I can't stand to see you wear yourself out like this."

Inwardly, I sneered. Outwardly, I let confusion cross my face.

"So what should we do? The design plans still need my oversight."

"Of course you'll still lead the design side. But when it comes to company operations and equity management, you could step back a little." He pulled a thick document from his briefcase and slid it across the table to me.

"This is a 'management authorization and equity trust agreement' I had legal draft up. Once you sign it, all the messy operational business becomes my responsibility. You can focus entirely on the design work you love, and just be my carefree wife."

I looked down at the agreement.

Black text on white paper, every line a trap designed to devour me whole.

If I hadn't known the truth, I might actually have been moved to tears by this performance of devotion, this "it's all for your own good" act.

"But... isn't it a lot of trouble for you, having my shares placed under your management?" I deliberately let hesitation creep into my voice.

"Silly girl, we're husband and wife. What's yours is mine, what's mine is yours. What difference does it make?"

He reached for a napkin, leaning in to gently wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of my mouth.

"Desmond, you're so good to me." I looked up at him, my eyes reddening slightly.

"But this document is so thick, and my head is pounding right now. I can't focus enough to read through it."

"Can I leave it here and look it over carefully tomorrow before I sign?"

"Of course, sweetheart. No rush at all." He gently pushed the now-warm cup of chamomile tea toward me. "Try the tea I made you. It should help with the headache."

I lifted the cup and took a small sip, smiling softly.

"This tea is really good."

I lowered my head, pretending to wipe away a tear of gratitude from the corner of my eye.

Hidden beneath my sleeve, my other hand quietly flipped the switch on the small recording pen.

Desmond—sooner or later, you're going to pay for every single word you said tonight.