The Double Takeout Bag

The thing she dreaded most, predictably, happened.

Violette Ellis called Blake Pierce on her way home. He seemed surgically attached to his phone; it connected in less than a second. The line was a chaotic blur of ambient noise—a frantic mix of human chatter and wind.

He didn't speak. His breathing was lost in the gusty static, as if he feared this call was a mistake and the slightest sound would send Violette slamming the phone down. For those few hollow seconds, she heard only the distant clatter of a tennis racket being adjusted in the background.

She said, "Hello?" again.

Blake finally snapped out of his daze. "It’s me."

"I have something to ask you," Violette said.

Someone approached him to borrow a racket. Normally, Blake wouldn't let a soul lay a finger on his equipment, but today, he just leaned his shoulder against the phone, tilting his head while he fished a spare training racket out of his bag and shoved it toward the stranger. "Use it with care," he muttered.

"I know, I know—your precious baby!" the other man laughed.

Blake grunted, gripped the phone with his freed hand, and strode toward the edge of the court. Away from the wind, the call cleared up, the night air settling around his voice. "Is this about me moving?"

His bluntness caught her off guard. She flicked her turn signal, weaving through traffic, while his voice poured through the car’s Bluetooth speakers. "If I told you I didn't know you lived there before I moved in, would that sound fake?"

"Yes," Violette replied.

"Then I’ll just admit it. I bought the unit downstairs."

"Why?"

Blake looked up at the moon. "You know my grandmother has weak lungs. The climate in Deepwater is humid, the winters aren't freezing—it’s perfect for her recovery. The property is in her name, and every record is registered to her. I’m always away for tournaments. I rarely come back. No one would ever know."

Violette’s tone hardened. "I asked you, *why?*"

He let out a bitter, dry laugh. "What other reason could there be?"

Traffic on the ring road was backed up, a snaking trail of red taillights. Violette stomped on the gas, then the brake, then the gas again, her frustration boiling over. She rhythmically tapped the steering wheel and repeated, "Blake, I am a married woman."

"I know," Blake said. "But the divorce rate is astronomical these days. That doesn't mean much."

Her tapping on the steering wheel grew erratic. *What was this?* He had been keeping his distance perfectly well before—and now, overnight, everything had changed.

"Anyone who sees you moving in downstairs is going to think something is going on between us," Violette said. "Are you just waiting for the explosion? Is the chaos the whole point?"

Blake lowered his eyes, turning away from the moon. "It’s only been a little while, and you’re already so obsessed with him? So fond of him that the law doesn't apply to anyone but your husband?"

Before last night, Violette might have struggled to decipher that jab. But today, it hit her with surgical precision. She froze. "You knew..."

A car behind her honked, jolting her back. She realized she’d left a massive gap between her and the car ahead.

"Yeah, I knew," Blake said. "You’re the only one who couldn't see it. The way he looks at you—he hasn't spent a single second where he didn't want to possess you entirely."

Violette’s anger deflated as quickly as it had risen. The mountain of accusations she’d prepared suddenly felt pointless, a heavy, unswallowed lump in her throat. Because she *was* with Roman Griffin now, wasn't she? So why did she feel like an adulteress caught in the act?

"Darling," Blake said, "you should know what fairness is."

He hung up, for the first time ever.

The lone streetlamp at the court flickered. Outside her window, the city pulse roared on, a river of red lights. Violette slammed her palm against the wheel. The sharp, dissonant blare of the horn cut through the street, and a driver in the next lane glanced over with a confused scowl. She took a deep breath, forced a tight, empty smile, and pushed forward.

The traffic eased as she turned off the main thoroughfare, but she didn't get home until 10:40 PM.

She checked her phone. The pinned chat with her husband was silent. Roman hadn't reached out once all day.

With that realization, she pushed the front door open, expecting a dark house. Instead, the lights were blazing from the foyer to the living room, a bright, welcoming path as if they were waiting for her return.

Sunny Griffin, the cat, trotted over at the sound of her footsteps, weaving between her ankles with a rhythmic meow. Violette reached down to scoop her up, but the cat dodged, tail held high like a compass needle pointing the way.

Violette followed the cat deep into the house, finding Roman in the media room.

The scene felt like a ghost of a memory. On the projector screen, their wedding footage played on a loop. Amidst the cheers of the crowd, he slid the ring onto her lace-covered finger.

"Whoo!" A teenage boy’s voice cracked in the recording.

Kaisen Griffin’s voice cut over the rest: "Kiss her! Just kiss her!"

The video paused there. Roman sat in the strobe of light from the projector, the overheads clicking on as he looked over. "You're back."

"Yeah."

"Hungry?"

"Starving."

Roman killed the projector. As he walked past her, he took her hand, his touch effortless. "I picked up some takeout."

Violette, desperate to mend the distance between them, squeezed his palm. "Have you eaten yet?"

"I already ate," he said.

He led her to the dining room and slipped into the kitchen. Violette found herself drawn to him, following like a magnet pulled to a different pole. Before she’d walked through the door, she had steeled her nerves, but watching his back as he methodically unpacked the food, she couldn't help it. She walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his back, wanting to finish the intimacy they’d left hanging the night before.

The moment her skin touched his, his muscles coiled tight beneath his shirt. Years of training had sculpted him with brutal, fluid precision. A deep furrow ran down his spine, a small valley that perfectly fit her fingertip.

She traced it, her touch light as a feather. "What did you get me?"

"Roasted duck. Salt-and-pepper king crab."

Roman was stiff as he handled the containers. If she could see his face, she would see his throat bobbing as he fought for control.

The duck was crispy and golden; the crab, buried in breadcrumbs, was still succulent and hot. Violette caught the scent and stepped on her toes to look, surprised to see her favorite restaurant’s logo on the boxes. "You just got back too? How is it still this hot?"

"Yeah. Only a few minutes before you."

Roman handed her a pair of chopsticks. "Taste it?"

He plucked a piece of crab, the shell pre-cracked, and fed it to her. The meat was sweet and firm. Violette closed her eyes in satisfaction. As she chewed, she watched him out of the corner of her eye.

How did he do it? How did he switch so effortlessly between a predatory panther and the perfect, domestic husband?

Her gaze drifted to the trash bin as he tossed a shell away. The housekeeper had cleaned it out during the day, but the bin was already overflowing again. She took two steps closer, squinting. Tucked neatly at the bottom were two other takeout containers from the exact same restaurant.

"What’s that?" Violette asked, swallowing.

"You weren't home by nine, and I grew impatient," Roman said, his voice as calm as a summer breeze. "So I went out and bought it fresh."

[{"zh": "影音室", "en": "media room", "type": "Location"}, {"zh": "保温盒", "en": "insulated food container", "type": "Item"}]