"Honey, you're really good to me."
"Drink it while it's hot."
Leo didn't speak again. He silently drank the porridge.
The atmosphere didn't have that sweet newlywed feeling. We both knew something sat between us.
A rift.
"Darling, I want a fruit platter."
A sickly-sweet voice drifted from the inner suite.
Leo froze, the porridge trapped in his mouth—couldn't swallow, couldn't spit it out. He stared at the bowl as if searching for an answer there.
I sat perfectly still.
He finally looked up. His gaze was frank. "I worked too late last night, so I let Delia sleep here. She must be talking in her sleep."
He said it loudly. Deliberately. A warning to the woman inside.
I didn't speak. I sat there, calm on the surface, but the stabbing pain of my nails digging into my palms reminded me that I wasn't nearly as composed as I looked.
Moments later, Delia emerged. The instant she saw me, her expression shifted—joy to confusion—her hand twisting the corner of her clothes as she fled back into the suite in a panic.
Leo had just warned her. This little performance was designed to provoke me.
She came out again a moment later, her composure restored.
"Chairman Farley. Vice Chairman Hughes." Her greeting was stiff, robotic.
I stayed silent. Leo waved his hand. "Get to work."
She left. The atmosphere grew heavier.
Leo took another bite of porridge. "This tastes even better than before. It's been so long since I've had porridge you made."
"Is it that I won't make it, or that you don't come home?"
He scratched his head. "The company's been too busy lately."
I dug my fingers into my thighs and sat up straight.
"Are you firing her, or am I doing it personally?"
"Hazel, you've misunderstood. There's nothing between me and Delia."
I stood and walked toward the suite.
Leo jumped up to stop me, his hand stretching out—then freezing midair. He pulled it back.
Inside, everything had changed. A style I'd never liked.
I opened the closet. Women's clothes that weren't mine.
In the makeup room, expensive cosmetics. Brands I didn't use.
Leo followed me in and wrapped his arms around me from behind. "Hazel, Delia reminds me so much of you when you were young."
"Her looks. The way she handles things. She's so similar."
"Back then, you stayed by my side and suffered so much. I can never make that up to the younger you—but Delia lets me try."
"Being good to her is my way of compensating for the girl you used to be."
"It helps me make peace with my regrets. I don't have feelings for her. Believe me."
I could hear my heart shattering.
When we were young, Leo and I built everything together. Our first studio was tiny—we worked there during the day and slept there at night.
Back then, we swore that someday we'd open a big company. We'd make a private space on the top floor that belonged only to us.
A place no one else could enter.
Now another woman had moved in.
I broke free of his arms, turned, and slapped him across the face. "So I'm telling you to fire her."
"Hazel, I told you—she's too much like you. She works so hard. Would you really want the younger you to be hurt?"
I stared at this man who once said one life, one world, one partner. He stood there calm and unhurried, speaking as if this all made perfect sense.
"When I was young, did I live in a room like this?"
"Did someone cook morning porridge for me?"
I couldn't hold back anymore. I stormed into the room, ripping at the sheets and duvet, yanking clothes from the closet and hurling them to the floor.
Cosmetics shattered everywhere.
"I'll say it one more time: fire her."
