Freda shot Dirk a playful, reproachful look, her tone dripping with feigned exasperation.
"My boyfriend knows I can't stand scallions, so he always picks them out for me."
"I told him I couldn't handle the taste, and he just... stopped eating them entirely. The CEO of Butler Group, making his kitchen staff leave out scallions even at business dinners!"
A year ago, Dirk—who had never been a picky eater—suddenly announced he didn't eat scallions anymore.
I'd assumed his stomach couldn't handle the irritation, so I'd been careful with every meal I cooked.
Turns out, it was all to accommodate Freda's preferences.
"Now everyone in his circle calls him whipped!" Freda beamed as she complained, radiating happiness.
I stood rooted to the spot, cold seeping through every inch of my body.
She didn't notice anything off about me. She kept eating, nodding between bites.
"This really is good. Leave me your number—I'll reach out to you directly next time."
Dirk's expression cooled. His voice dropped low.
"You're just the hired cook. Don't overstep."
The warning in his tone cut through me, and a bitter wave of indignation surged up from somewhere deep inside.
I was the one who'd been with him first. So why was I being treated like the other woman?
My chest burned. I opened my mouth, the impulse to confront him clawing at my throat.
Then he pulled Freda into his arms, and his eyes locked on mine—hard, vicious.
The hostility in that stare was so foreign it stole the words right out of me.
Freda's face was pressed against his chest, oblivious to the look he'd given me.
"Dirk? What's wrong?"
The sight of them together stung so badly my vision blurred.
I mumbled an excuse about having somewhere to be and practically fled, stumbling out the door.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Dirk.
Be home tonight. We need to talk.
What was left to talk about?
When we'd first gotten together, I'd even teased him once.
"Your last name is Butler, and you work at Butler Group? Don't tell me you're secretly the CEO."
I blamed myself for being so oblivious. I never followed business news, never questioned anything he told me. Whatever came out of his mouth, I believed.
A quick search told me everything. Dirk Butler was the sole heir to the Butler family, wielding enormous power at a remarkably young age.
And I'd met him five years ago, waiting tables at a coffee shop. He'd never breathed a word of it.
Looking back, the signs had been everywhere.
He'd told me his clothes were thrift-store finds, bargain-bin deals. But the fabric, the tailoring—they were finer than anything you'd find at a designer boutique.
He complained about being overworked and underpaid, but his hands were smooth. Not a single callus.
I'd scrimped and saved for nearly six months to buy him a mid-range designer watch for his birthday.
He never wore it. Not once.
When I asked why, he'd pinched my cheek and smiled, all warm and indulgent.
"It's a gift from my girl. I'd feel bad wearing it out."
Now I understood. It wasn't that he couldn't bear to wear it.
He'd been embarrassed by it. A watch like that was beneath a man of his status.
The tears came before I could stop them. I cried the entire walk home.
Late that night, I heard the front door. Dirk stepped inside and found me sitting there, face streaked with tears.
Something flickered across his features—pain, maybe guilt—and he crossed the room to pull me into his arms. Then he sighed.
"Celeste, don't blame me."
"Freda's still in college. She's young, carefree."
"But you... all you think about anymore is work and money. You can't even go out for our anniversary without using a discount coupon."
The words hit me like a bolt of lightning.
Six months ago, Dirk had told me he'd gotten a promotion and a raise. I'd scraped together enough to buy two discount vouchers for a high-end steakhouse to celebrate.
I'd told him about it with so much excitement on my face, practically glowing.
And Dirk's expression had gone cold.
