Chapter 2

Elena

THE SMELL OF BURNT TOAST filled the kitchen before I could figure out how to turn off the smoke alarm.

I waved a dish towel toward the ceiling, eyes stinging, silently begging the thing to stop screaming. It finally gave one last shriek before falling silent, leaving only the quiet sizzle of overcooked eggs on the stove and my embarrassment echoing in the walls.

I wasn’t a good cook. Never claimed to be. But this morning, I tried.

Not because I thought it would change him. But because I still believed in effort. In softness. In the chance, however slim, that kindness might thaw cold marble.

After all, it was our first morning as husband and wife.

I hadn’t slept much. I kept waking up, expecting something different. A hand on the other side of the bed. A breath not my own. Anything. But Julian never came. He kept his promise and stayed in the guest room, far away, like the distance between us had already been written in stone.

Still, I got up before the sun. I clung to the word civil like it could save me. Not love. Not even affection. Just something neutral. Something human.

The eggs were slightly burnt. The toast, worse. The flower I plucked from yesterday’s centerpiece wilted slightly in a chipped teacup. I didn’t care. I just needed to try.

When I heard his footsteps echoing down the hall, I straightened my robe and stood beside the table, too aware of everything. The overcooked breakfast. The silence. My heartbeat.

Julian entered, sharp and composed, already dressed in slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled with effortless precision. He looked like someone who belonged on magazine covers and marble conference tables. Not in a kitchen with me.

His eyes swept the room once. His expression didn’t change.

“You cooked?” he asked flatly.

“I tried,” I said. “It’s not… gourmet. But I thought maybe we could eat together. Something simple. Civil.”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped toward the table and eyed the food like it might bite him.

I quickly added, “Coffee’s fresh. I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I—”

“I don’t want anything that has ‘trying’ in it,” he said, reaching for his phone. “And I don’t eat breakfast.”

My throat tightened. “You could have a sip. Just the coffee, at least.”

“I have work.” He slid his blazer on, adjusted the cuffs, and turned toward the door. “Don’t wait up for dinner.”

He was gone before I could reply. The door clicked behind him like a period at the end of a sentence I didn’t get to finish.

I stood there for a long moment. Then sat.

I wasn’t hungry either, but I took a seat at the table because I couldn’t just… collapse. The eggs looked worse up close. My toast cracked when I picked it up. The coffee had already cooled.

And somewhere deep in the ache of disappointment, the weight of it settled in my chest: I was married to a man who wouldn’t even drink the coffee I made for him.

I looked down at the chipped teacup, at the dying flower inside it, and thought of a summer long ago. A different morning. A different boy.

We were children—ten, maybe. It was the kind of memory that didn’t feel real anymore, but it still glowed in my mind like sunlight on water. I was staying with my grandmother then, and I used to sneak off to the lake, where the trees bent low and the wind hummed soft secrets through the reeds.

That’s where I met him.

He was quiet, but not shy. We talked like we already knew each other, like our friendship had existed in another lifetime and was just waiting to pick up where it left off. We built sandcastles with twigs for flags and drew animals in the dirt with sticks. I showed him my sketchbook once, and he told me I could paint anything I dreamed.

Right before he left, he looked at me—serious in the way only children can be when they mean something deeply—and said, “I’m going to marry you one day. You’ll see. I’ll give you everything.”

I remembered laughing and telling him he was silly.

But somewhere deep inside, I believed him.

That was the first promise anyone ever made to me that felt like magic.

And now, I was married to a man who couldn't even drink the coffee I made.

I used to think love would find me in soft places. In whispered vows and warm hands. But maybe it only came in flashes. In childhood. In dreams. In lies dressed up as fairy tales.

Still… I clung to it.

We just learn how to hurt quietly.