Elena The clock on the mantle was a custom piece—brushed gold, silent, and excruciatingly precise. I had watched the minute hand sweep across the dial for three hours, three minutes, and twelve seconds. I sat at the head of the dining table, my spine perfectly straight, the way my mother had taught me. A dainty woman, she used to say, never let her back touch the chair. It was a rule I followed as religiously as the others. never raise your voice, never let your hair frizz, and never, under any circumstances, let the world see that you are anything less than cherished. The Coq au Vin had long since stopped steaming. A thin, translucent film had formed over the red wine reduction, dulling the vibrant color I’d worked so hard to achieve. I’d spent the afternoon in the kitchen, the heat of the stove wilting my silk blouse, all to ensure that when Marcus walked through the door, he would be met with the olfactory proof of my devotion. 7:00 PM had been the goal. 8:00 PM had been the
Last Updated : 2026-02-12 Read more