Everett didn’t return home until dinner the following night.

In the past, whenever he sensed he’d pushed me too far, he would always bring home some small gift to smooth things over. Sometimes it was a bouquet of lilies, other times it was those high-end pastries from that bakery with the hour-long waiting list.

Tonight, his hands were empty.

He offered a perfunctory nod of greeting, then sat across from me and began to eat. But barely a few bites in, he slammed his silverware onto the plate, the metallic clatter slicing through the silence.

"Why is this so salty? Evelyn, we’ve been married for three years. Can you still not gauge a simple seasoning?"

I didn't know what had crawled under his skin today, but he was clearly intent on offloading his foul mood onto me. For the first time, however, I felt a strange, cold clarity—a shift in the foundation of everything I had known.

Helen, our housekeeper, rushed out from the kitchen, her face pale. She began apologizing profusely, her voice trembling. "I am so sorry, sir. Evelyn wasn’t feeling well today, so I was the one who prepared dinner. I’ll take these plates back and fix you something else immediately."

Everett looked like he’d swallowed a moth. His expression curdled, his face twisting into a mask of ugly discomfort. He sat there for a long beat before waving her off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist.

"Forget it. Just eat it as it is."

After his outburst, Everett didn't spare me a single word. He acted as if his cruel, misguided lashing out was his right—as if I were merely a fixture in the house, designed to absorb his frustrations.

I set my own fork down, making a deliberate, sharp sound against the porcelain.

"Everett, do you hate me that much?"

The man’s head was bowed, his shoulders stiff. When he finally looked up, his eyes were shuttered, hiding any hint of genuine emotion.

"Evelyn, why would you say something like that? I admit my voice was a bit loud. If that upset you, I apologize. But you’re home all day. You shouldn't be burdening Helen with chores like cooking."

I stared directly into his eyes, searching for a shred of humanity, of honesty.

"I am your wife, not your maid—and I am certainly not Hailey Silva’s personal assistant. I am done setting foot in that kitchen."

Predictably, the moment I dropped Hailey's name, a spark of jagged lightning ignited in his gaze. He surged to his feet.

"We’re talking about us. Why do you always have to drag her into this?" He stared down at me, his lip curling in disgust. "You’re being completely unreasonable."