~ Disastrous Dinner ~

I'd been in the kitchen for six hours straight preparing an elaborate dinner for Amiir's business associates because apparently, being his wife meant being his unpaid chef, and maid.

It was perfect. I'd tasted everything multiple times, adjusted the seasoning carefully, and made sure every dish was exactly right.

Now I stood at the head of the formal dining table, watching as Amiir's guests who'd barely acknowledged my existence when they arrived, took their first bites.

The man closest to me immediately spit his food back onto his plate.

"Jesus Christ," he sputtered, reaching for his water glass. "What the hell?"

Another man made a gagging sound, his face contorting. "Is this a joke?"

The third man didn't even swallow, just grabbed his napkin and discreetly deposited the lamb into it. "I think... I think someone confused salt for sugar. Or possibly dumped an entire container of it into every dish."

"Looks like Lot's wife took a bath in your cooking pot," the first man said, trying to make light of it but clearly disgusted.

My stomach dropped. That was impossible. I'd been so careful with the seasoning, had tasted everything—

"This is a complete disaster," Cordelia's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. She sat at Amiir's right hand and she hadn't even tried the food. Just pushed it around her plate with a fork. "I did suggest we hold this meeting at a restaurant, Mr. Blackwood."

She looked directly at me, and I swear I saw satisfaction flash in her eyes.

"But you insisted on a home-cooked meal."

"I don't understand," I said, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. "I tasted everything multiple times. There's no way I could have made such a mistake."

"Clearly you did," Cordelia interrupted smoothly. "Unless you're suggesting someone else was in the kitchen tampering with your dishes? Which seems a bit paranoid, don't you think?"

I looked at Amiir, silently begging him to say something, to defend me for once, to acknowledge that this didn't make sense. But he wouldn't meet my eyes. Just stared at his plate like it had personally offended him.

"It's not too late to make a reservation," Cordelia continued, pulling out her phone. "I can have us at Le Bernardin in thirty minutes if—"

"That won't be necessary," one of the men said, pushing his plate away. "I think we've all lost our appetite anyway. We can discuss business over drinks instead. Wine, perhaps? Something that isn't seasoned with an ocean's worth of salt?"

The other men chuckled, and I felt heat flood my face. They were making jokes at my expense, treating this like some amusing dinner party mishap instead of the humiliation it actually was.

"Wine sounds excellent," Amiir said, his voice perfectly neutral. "Gentlemen, I apologize for the dinner."

"Is this another one of your schemes?" The words burst out of me before I could stop them.

The table went silent. Everyone turned to look at me with surprise.

"Excuse me?" Amiir's voice was dangerously quiet.

But I was past caring. Past pretending. Past swallowing every humiliation he threw at me with quiet dignity.

I turned to Cordelia, letting all my fury show. "It isn't enough that you're sleeping with my husband, is it? You had to come into my home, into my kitchen, and sabotage the one thing I was actually trying to do right?"

Cordelia's face went pale... or at least, she made it look pale. "I beg your pardon? I would not appreciate false accusations, Mrs. Blackwood. Especially not in front of Mr. Blackwood's business associates."

"False accusations?" I laughed, but it came out bitter, harsh. "Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't sabotage this dinner. Go ahead. I'm waiting."

She opened her mouth, but I didn't let her speak.

"And while you're at it, tell me that burgundy shade of lipstick you're wearing isn't the same one I keep finding on my husband's shirts. The same one I found on his collar just this morning."

Cordelia's eyes widened, but she recovered quickly. "I have no idea what you're accusing me of. I'm here to do my job, nothing more. If you're a terrible cook, that's not my fault. Don't project your insecurities onto me just because you can't handle basic kitchen duties."

"My job?" I repeated. "Is that what we're calling it? Fucking my husband is now part of your job description?"