“Dominic, you're way too thin. Eat up.”
I set the braised beef, the tomato beef stew, and the sweet-and-sour tenderloin right in front of him.
He liked all of it.
Jordan's jaw was clenched so tight the muscles twitched, his eyes practically burning.
Then he shot to his feet, slammed his chopsticks on the table, and stormed out.
Stella glanced at me, then at Dominic, who sat with his gaze lowered the entire time, and followed Jordan out.
My mood only improved.
The nuisances were finally gone.
Dominic watched the smile on my face. His lashes trembled, and then his hand slipped, spilling the soup from his bowl all over himself.
I startled and rushed to unbutton his shirt to check.
“Dominic, are you burned?!”
He kept his head down, perfectly still, perfectly obedient.
The moment my fingertips grazed his pale skin, he flinched hard and pulled away from me.
Only when I noticed the red tips of his ears did I realize I'd crossed a line.
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat, a little embarrassed.
“It's fine……” His voice was so soft it made something in my chest go hollow.
I'll admit my intentions just now weren't exactly innocent.
The Dominic I used to know had been the moon, beautiful and impossibly far away.
Born into old money, top of every class, blessed with a face that belonged on a magazine cover and six-foot-two of height to match. He turned heads no matter where he went.
But the universe has a sense of balance.
It gave him wealth and beauty, and saddled him with the worst personality imaginable.
Arrogant, condescending, untouchable. The rest of us were beneath his notice, unworthy of so much as a glance.
And yet last night, that same man had stood under the streetlight on a bad leg, trembling, eyes downcast, asking me to take him in.
He said he'd been the Langford family's fake heir all along. They'd broken his leg and thrown him out with nowhere to go.
The distant moon had suddenly dropped into my hands.
I couldn't think of a single reason to say no.
I even started regretting the fact that I was married.
Until Jordan brought Stella home.
In that instant, all I felt was relief.
I forgot every wound Jordan had ever given me and genuinely marveled at us. Husband and wife, truly in sync.
That sense of marvel lasted all the way into the evening.
Jordan, who never once came home on a night he was angry, came home early.
His face was still dark, and Stella still trailed behind him.
But for the first time in our marriage, he walked into the kitchen and started washing the dishes piled in the sink.
I watched him in an apron, hands covered in suds, and didn't know what to say.
There was a dishwasher in the kitchen. Jordan didn't know that, and had never used it.
When he finished, he didn't take the apron off. He sat down across from me, face stony, and said nothing.
I looked at him and offered a stiff：“Thanks.”
His expression darkened further.
He stretched one long leg out, blocking my path.
I looked at him, then at the suds still clinging to his hands, and inspiration struck. Against every honest bone in my body, I said：“The dishes are spotless. No other husband washes them that well.”
Jordan's expression eased just a fraction. He let out a cold huff and left.
That night, he went a step further and actually came into the bedroom.
We'd been sleeping in separate rooms for six months.
When it first started, Jordan's excuse was：“Work's been crazy. I don't want to keep you up.”
Later, when I went to pick him up drunk, I overheard him telling his buddies：“Irene's a bore in bed. Got sick of her. Now just looking at her makes me nauseous.”
By now, I was used to sleeping alone.
