Chapter 5

Elena

The scent of freshly baked bread and overripe peaches mingled in the air as I pushed the grocery cart down the produce aisle. The wheels wobbled every few feet, veering left like they, too, had somewhere better to be.

Margot trailed beside me, inspecting a pile of tomatoes like they held the answers to the universe. “So,” she began, her voice sharp and amused. “Are we still playing ‘Let’s Be Civil with My Husband Who Couldn’t Care Less’?”

I didn’t answer immediately. I reached for a head of lettuce I didn’t even want, just to keep my hands busy. It had been a month. A full thirty days, or more, of trying.

I cooked. Every morning, I made breakfast—sometimes eggs, sometimes French toast, once a painfully over-salted omelet that even I couldn’t eat. I made dinner, too. I waited for him to come home, hopeful in a way I hated. But Julian always had a reason not to stay. Work. Meetings. “Not hungry.” Sometimes, he didn’t even offer an excuse. Just silence and that damn blank stare.

Still, I clung to the word civil like it might be enough to save me. If not a marriage, then maybe, just maybe, a truce. A friendship. Something to make the silence less deafening.

“He’s not a monster,” I muttered, placing the lettuce in the cart.

Margot arched a brow. “No, darling. Monsters at least have some passion.”

I laughed softly despite myself.

She leaned closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “Look, I know you’re trying. And I admire it, I really do. But it’s been a month. One month of cold shoulders, missed dinners, and dry-ass silence. You’re his wife, Elena. Not a wall decoration.”

“He didn’t ask for this,” I said quietly.

“Neither did you. But you’re still the one showing up. He can barely look you in the eye. I mean…” she paused for dramatic effect, then added with a sly grin, “Maybe he’s gay.”

I stopped pushing the cart. “What?”

Margot held up her hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying. It would explain a lot. Gorgeous man, no interest in women, emotionally unavailable—textbook.”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s not gay.”

“You sure?” she teased. “Because I haven’t heard any juicy stories. Has he even looked at you like a man looks at his wife? You know, looked looked?”

I stared at the avocados like they might defend me. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, plucking two avocados with ease. “You’re in denial. The man has the emotional range of a concrete slab. You need to do something drastic.”

“Like what?”

She turned, grinning wickedly. “Seduce him.”

I almost dropped the shopping list. “Margot.”

“What? Just wear something scandalous. Lingerie. Red lipstick. Light a candle or two. Then walk up to him and say, ‘I’m your wife. Treat me like it.’”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“I’m serious. Men are simple creatures. You light one fuse and they explode.”

“I’m not going to throw myself at him like a desperate—”

“You are desperate.”

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Not like that.”

Her smile softened. “Then stop trying. Stop playing perfect wife to someone who clearly doesn’t care. You’ve bent over backwards, Elena. Maybe it’s time you bend for yourself.”

I looked down at the shopping cart filled with vegetables, pasta, and ingredients for meals he’d never eat. “And do what?”

“Go back to art. Paint something. Anything. Bleed onto the canvas like you used to.”

“I don’t even know if I still can,” I admitted, voice quieter than I meant it to be. “It’s like… every time I pick up a brush, I hear my father’s voice telling me it’s useless. That I’m wasting my time.”

“Then drown his voice in color,” Margot said firmly. “You were an artist before all this. You don’t need permission to be her again.”

I smiled faintly. I missed that version of me. The girl with stained fingertips, daydreams, and ambition. The girl who didn’t tiptoe around a stranger in her own home.

We turned into the snack aisle, her humming as she tossed chocolate and pretzels into the cart like she was feeding a twelve-year-old.

“Anyway,” she said, popping a grape from a sample bowl into her mouth, “if you’re not going to seduce him, or dump him, or paint your soul back into existence, then at least flirt with someone else. Shake the tree a little.”

I gave her a look. “That’s helpful.”

“I’m just saying. A little attention from someone else might do wonders for your confidence.”

As if summoned by some wicked universe, someone turned the corner of the aisle and stopped in his tracks.

“Ladies,” came a voice I knew too well by now.

Callum Blackwood.

Of course.

He wore dark jeans, a black coat over a navy turtleneck, and that smirk, half-arrogant, half-charming. That made women either swoon or slap him. He held a single bottle of wine in his hand like it was a fashion accessory.

“Callum,” I said carefully, unsure of what his presence meant.

Margot’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, this is the brother?”

“Callum Blackwood,” he said, offering his hand with mock flourish. “The more likable sibling.”

Margot shook his hand, clearly intrigued. “Margot. I’ve heard nothing about you.”

He looked at me, amused. “Really? And here I thought I was unforgettable.”

I tried not to groan.

“What brings you to this domestic wonderland?” I asked, gesturing to the aisle of chips and crackers.

“I live three blocks down. Thought I’d grab a bottle before tonight.”

“Tonight?”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t Julian tell you? There’s a dinner event. Business, mostly. But spouses usually tag along.”

Of course, he didn’t tell me.

Margot caught my expression instantly. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” I said, lips tight.

Callum smiled like he’d won a silent point. “Ah. My dear brother, ever the communicator.”

“He’s probably just busy,” I offered weakly.

Callum gave me a look. Sympathetic, sharp. “Right. Busy.”

Margot leaned in toward me as Callum wandered a few feet away, pretending to admire a shelf of organic granola. “Okay, wow. He’s hot. Like, villain-in-a-romance-novel hot.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I hissed.

“I’m thinking about it for you,” she said. “I mean… he’s flirty, he’s not rude, he looks like he owns a yacht. What’s not to like?”

“Because he’s Julian’s brother.”

“Exactly,” Margot whispered. “Wouldn’t that be the most delicious kind of payback?”

I rolled my eyes and pushed the cart forward, brushing past Callum, who followed with his wine and an unreadable expression.

“See you tonight, Elena,” he said, voice dipped in amusement.

I gave him a thin smile. “Can’t wait.”