Chapter 3

Nora's POV

The next morning, I was woken up by noise from the kitchen.

I pushed the door open to find Preston standing at the counter frying eggs.

Sunlight streamed through the window onto him, the scene warm enough to leave me dazed.

I walked over, about to speak, when he said without turning around, "Stella has a sensitive stomach. She can only have liquids—I soaked some oats in milk for her. Yours is in the microwave, heat it up yourself."

I stopped, watching him expertly plate the eggs alongside a few sliced cherry tomatoes.

That was how Stella liked them.

"I'm not eating. I need to get to the office." I turned to go change.

Preston walked out with the plate, his brow slightly furrowed. "Skipping breakfast is bad for your stomach. Since when do you take your frustration out on your health?"

Frustration?

I stopped and turned to look at him.

His eyes held a trace of impatience, as if I was the one being unreasonable.

"I'm not frustrated. I'm just not hungry." My tone was flat as I grabbed my bag and headed out.

Stella was just coming out of the guest room, wearing my silk pajamas, her long hair loose, eyes still puffy.

"Good morning, Ms. Hayes," she greeted carefully.

"Good morning." I nodded and walked past her toward the door.

Preston's voice came from behind me: "Drive safe. I've got a dinner tonight, so stop by the grocery store on your way home and pick up some fruit Stella likes."

I paused while putting on my shoes.

"What does she like?" I asked.

"Cherries and grapes." Preston answered without hesitation.

I curled my lips and pushed open the door.

Cherries and grapes.

He remembered perfectly.

But he forgot that I was allergic to cherries.

Three years ago, he brought home a box of cherries. I ate a few and broke out in hives all over—ended up in the ER in the middle of the night.

That day, he held my hand, full of guilt, swearing that fruit would never enter our home again.

Now, for Stella, he'd forgotten that promise completely.

At the office, I threw myself into the new project.

I was an architectural designer—the work was intense, but it was exactly that intensity that let me temporarily forget the mess at home.

At lunch break, my assistant Lily came over and handed me a coffee.

"Nora, you have huge bags under your eyes. Didn't sleep well last night?"

I took the coffee and sipped. "A bit of insomnia."

"Doesn't Preston love you so much—didn't he make you a glass of warm milk?" Lily teased.

To my coworkers, Preston was the model husband.

He'd occasionally come pick me up after work, always with some elegant afternoon tea.

I smiled and said nothing.

That surface-level affection was like a bunch of fragile bubbles—pop them and there was nothing but emptiness inside.

That afternoon, I got a call from Preston.

"My dinner tonight is canceled. I made a reservation at that French restaurant you love. I'll pick you up after work." He sounded like he was in a good mood.

I paused.

That French restaurant was hard to book—you usually had to reserve two weeks out.

"What made you think of going there?" I asked.

"I didn't spend the anniversary with you yesterday, so I'm making up for it tonight," he said. "Stella said she'll be fine alone at home and that we should have some quality time together."

So it was Stella's idea.

The small bit of warmth that had just sparked in my chest instantly cooled.