Chapter 4

At 7:30 am, sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sprawling apartment. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of pour-over coffee and the faint sweetness of butter-toasted bread.

Silas, wearing a gray linen outfit softened through repeated washing, slid a perfectly cooked poached egg from the saucepan onto a porcelain plate. A pot of chicken soup was quietly simmering on another hob.

He'd carefully selected this menu for a reason. Just two nights ago, Teresa had thrown up so much that she looked like she was about to fall apart. She also had far too much to drink last night. If she didn't eat something light and nutritious today, her stomach might end up failing for good.

Just as he finished preparing the food, the bedroom door opened.

Teresa emerged while looking down at her tablet, swiping furiously at it. She was already fully dressed in a sharply tailored, ash-gray business suit. Her hair was clipped up neatly, and a Bluetooth earpiece sat in her ear.

"Tell the acquisitions department I don't agree with the additional clauses in the renewable energy proposal Carlton mentioned last night. The profit margins have been set too rigidly. Have them redo the risk assessment and send it to my inbox before 10:00 am."

Her words flew out in rapid-fire bursts, like a machine gun, with a commanding intensity. She headed straight for the entryway without even glancing at the dining table.

"Teresa," Silas called out to her, pointing at the steaming bowl of chicken soup on the table. "Have some soup before you go. It's good for your stomach. You drank too much last night."

Teresa, who was in the middle of slipping into her heels, paused for a moment. She turned around, and her eyes landed on the porcelain bowl for roughly half a second before her brows instinctively furrowed.

"There's no time." She glanced at her watch. "Louisa is already waiting in the parking lot, and morning traffic's bad. I can't be late for my 9:00 am international video conference."

"Then take a sandwich with you."

Silas reached out and grabbed a grease-proof paper bag.

"No. It's too dry. I don't want it. Louisa got me an iced coffee."

"You flooded your stomach with alcohol last night, and now you're drinking iced coffee without eating anything first?"

Silas frowned, stunned by Teresa's lack of concern for her own health. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"I need to be alert." Teresa had already opened the door. "I'll have Louisa pick up some medicine for my stomach later. I'm leaving."

She immediately went back to her call, saying, "Tell the legal department to…"

The door shut with a decisive bang. She didn't even say a proper goodbye.

Silence swallowed the apartment. Only the faint hum of the range hood remained.

Silas remained standing, still holding a plate of buttered toast. He let out a sigh, but unlike in the movies, he didn't toss the food, plate and all, into the trash. Real adults didn't waste food like that.

He sat down and slowly ate his breakfast, drinking the coffee as well. Then, he quietly poured the soup, which had now congealed a little, down the sink. As the liquid disappeared into the pipes below, so too did all trace of his insignificant act of concern.

After cleaning up the kitchen, Silas grabbed the coat Teresa used yesterday. The stench of alcohol and unidentified cologne clung to it, so he hung it up on the balcony to air it. Once he'd completed all the chores, it was already 10:00 am.

He washed his hands and walked into the study, locking the door behind him.

The moment the lock clicked shut, something in his expression changed—the look of an amiable househusband vanished.

The computer screen lit up, the desktop covered with files containing architectural diagrams and branding elements.

Silas was not the hopeless househusband, one who was only good at keeping the house orderly while making a few drawings to pass the time, that Teresa—or even Carlton—imagined.

In the design industry, the name "Sil" had become synonymous with a minimalist style that somehow still conveyed a unique, dynamic use of spatial design.

He had just signed a major contract, becoming the principal designer responsible for the full visual identity for a luxury art hotel opening in Bellmere. It was a massive project with a sky-high budget and stakes just as high.

For months, he'd practically poured every spare moment he had in between chores into this project. The cursor moved quickly across the screen as he adjusted the lighting for the hotel lobby's feature wall.

When he worked, he had a kind of quiet confidence that Teresa had never once seen with her own eyes. To her, his study was basically just another storage room. The professional-grade 3D software on his computer was probably no different from a casual puzzle game.

All she needed was an emotionally stable husband who could cook well, manage the household, and would never cause trouble for her.

At noon, Silas took a break. He rubbed his stiff neck before pulling up TikTok.

Two years ago, he created an account with the username "SilverAsh" and used it as a cloud-stored food diary, posting the process for his cooking. He didn't show his face or even add any narration. The video consisted solely of his clean kitchen counter and his precise knife work.

He had just about 50 thousand followers, which wasn't a lot, but they were unusually active.

Silas uploaded a clip of the braised beef brisket he had made, which ended up untouched. Within two minutes, comments started popping up.

"First comment! Silver's such a pro. With that level of knife work, he has to be a chef."

"The brisket looks unreal! Can we sue him for tempting us with food?"

"Day XXX of asking the same question—who is the lucky goddess who gets to eat Silver's food every day? I'm so envious of her! She's won the greatest lottery in life."

Silas stared at that comment for a while. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile but couldn't. Teresa had won the lottery, huh?

Well, the goddess they were discussing didn't even bother looking at the braised beef brisket. And just this morning, she'd chosen to have an iced coffee rather than take a few minutes to drink the chicken soup he'd prepared.

Silas closed the app without responding to any of the comments.

Later in the afternoon, he made a trip to the supermarket for fresh seafood and some basil.

A few days ago, Teresa had made an offhanded remark about craving some basil pasta. She probably forgot about it almost right after, but he didn't. He'd swiftly added the ingredients to his shopping list.

At 6:00 pm, he got to work in the kitchen, preparing dinner. By 7:00 pm, the seafood basil pasta was ready, and he'd made some garlic bread to go with it.

Soon, it was 8:00 pm. Silas had stuffed the food into the oven to keep it warm.

At 10:00 pm, the only light in the living room came from the TV, which was playing a nature documentary that had the added effect of lulling one to sleep.

Silas was seated on the couch, staring at a WhatsApp chat on his phone.

Silas: "Are you coming home for dinner tonight?"

He'd sent that message at 5:00 pm, and it'd gone unanswered.

This time, he didn't pepper Teresa with a series of calls. He waited for her to be the one who remembered the existence of this home unprompted.

An hour passed, then another 30 minutes. It was already 11:30 pm.

Silas had once set up a pretty pathetic rule for himself. If Teresa wasn't home by midnight or hadn't even sent a message, he wouldn't wait up for her anymore.

But for the past three years, this rule of his had never been enforced. The moment he heard the door click open, he would still instinctively get up to pour Teresa a glass of warm water.

At 11:50 pm, Silas stared at the city lights outside, most of them already extinguished. Sighing, he finally made the call.

He didn't expect her to come home for the pasta anymore. He was just worried that she might be completely drunk, like she'd been two nights before, and had to be hauled back by one of her subordinates again.

The call rang for ages. Just when Silas thought it would go to voicemail, it finally connected.

"Hello?" Teresa's voice came through the speaker.

In the background, there wasn't the usual hustle and bustle of smarmy businesspeople exchanging pleasantries. Instead, there was only soft jazz music and the occasional clink of ice in a glass. It sounded like things were pretty relaxed wherever she was right now.

"It's me, Teresa," Silas said, his voice sounding a little hoarse as it echoed in the living room. "Are you coming home tonight? Do you need me to come get you?"

"No. I'll head home by myself later." Teresa had a trace of annoyance in her voice, as if displeased at having been interrupted.

Then a familiar male voice could be heard on her end. "Try this drink, Teresa. It's freshly mixed…"

Silas recognized Carlton's voice, and his breath stalled for a moment. Glancing down at the coffee table, he said out of nowhere, "You mentioned craving seafood basil pasta a few days ago. I made it today, and it's—"

"Silas." Teresa cut him off, her voice lowered but sounding even more annoyed now. "Did you even check the time? It's almost midnight!"

"I know…"

"I'm in the middle of a very important discussion," Teresa snapped without even realizing how harsh her tone had become. It sounded as though she was lecturing a thoughtless subordinate. "Who goes home at midnight just to eat pasta? Can you stop obsessing over these trivial things? I don't have time to report my schedule to you every day! I'm ending the call."

The call went dead.

Just like that, she'd reduced the effort Silas had shown today, from picking out the freshest seafood to preparing the meal with great care, along with the patience he'd shown while waiting for her throughout the past three years, to mere triviality. It felt like a huge slap to the face.

Silas put down his phone and leaned back against the couch.

The clock on the wall let out a soft click. It was now precisely midnight.

He stood up and calmly walked into the kitchen. He reached into the oven and took out the plate of pasta, now looking more like a clump of cardboard. After placing it on the kitchen island, he picked up a fork and forced a bite into his mouth.

The cold basil sauce tasted bitter and almost nauseating. The seafood had turned stale and smelled fishy. It was harder to eat than a handful of seaweed plucked fresh from the sea.

Silas only chewed a couple of times. He tried to swallow, but he couldn't get it down. In the end, he spat it into a tissue, then dumped the entire plate into the trash without hesitation.

He used to think that if he waited long enough, he could melt even the toughest block of ice. But staring at the green lump in the trash, he realized something simple. No matter how many times cold food was reheated, it would never taste the same as when it first came off the stove.

Perhaps the clock had truly struck midnight.