Chapter 8
1015words
I smiled calmly at her jealousy-contorted face.
“Is that right? I look forward to your findings.”
With that, I turned on my heel and walked away.
Despite my victory, I knew this was just the opening salvo. Sophie's threat confirmed they'd be digging into Luke's background.
As I drove home, I strategized my next move.
Pulling into my apartment complex, I spotted a suspicious figure lurking by the security booth, questioning the guard.
I recognized him immediately—William's personal assistant.
They'd moved fast.
Very fast.
I parked in a secluded spot and called Luke.
He answered on the first ring.
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“William's assistant is downstairs interrogating the security guard. Stay inside, don't let anyone see you.”
Two seconds of silence followed.
Then I heard something unexpected—a soft laugh.
It was the first time I'd heard him laugh.
“What's so funny?” I snapped. This was serious.
“Nothing,” he said, sobering. “Just small flies. Come up normally. I know what to do.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I stared at my phone, baffled.
Something in his confident “I know what to do” calmed my racing heart.
Fine.
I'd trust him. This once.
I took a deep breath, got out of my car, and walked into the building as if nothing were amiss.
William's assistant spotted me and immediately ducked away, pretending to be on his phone.
I walked straight to the elevator without acknowledging him.
As the doors closed, I caught his reflection rushing back to the security guard, pointing after me animatedly.
I smiled grimly to myself.
I unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside.
The smell hit me immediately—someone was cooking.
I froze in the doorway.
On my dining table sat a complete meal: tomato and egg stir-fry, broccoli, cola-glazed chicken wings, and a steaming bowl of egg drop soup.
And there was Luke—wearing my ridiculous pink Winnie the Pooh apron—carrying a bowl of rice from the kitchen.
I stood speechless.
Had I stepped into an alternate reality?
Luke noticed me and paused, glancing down at the cartoonish apron that clashed so violently with his stoic persona. For the first time, I caught a flicker of what might have been embarrassment cross his face.
“Limited ingredients in your refrigerator,” he said, setting down the rice as if wearing a cartoon bear was perfectly normal.
I looked from him to the carefully prepared meal, remembering his confident “I know what to do” on the phone. Suddenly I understood.
“You…” I gestured between him and the food. “Are you…?”
Without answering, he crossed to me and took my coat and bag, hanging them by the door as if he'd done it a thousand times.
Then he knelt down—actually knelt—and placed slippers before my feet.
The gesture was so natural, so practiced, as if we'd been married for years.
“Acting,” he said, looking up at me with those unfathomable eyes. “Isn't that what you wanted? The full performance?”
“As your 'husband,' having dinner ready when you come home from work seems appropriate, doesn't it?”
I admit it—seeing Luke kneeling there, looking up at me with a home-cooked meal waiting behind him—my heart did something complicated in my chest.
Growing up with a career-focused mother and an absent father, I'd gotten used to eating alone, solving problems alone. In twenty-seven years, no one had ever cooked for me, no one had ever waited for me to come home.
Even knowing this was just pretense, I felt something crack in the walls I'd built around my heart.
“How did you know someone was watching the building?” I asked, stepping into the slippers to hide my confusion.
“Saw him from the window,” he said, straightening. “He's been there an hour. Fifteen minutes with security, then fruit baskets to all your neighbors.”
My stomach dropped.
They weren't just watching—they were building a network of informants around me. Classic Melissa.
“So what—”
“It's handled,” Luke cut in smoothly. “I took out the trash earlier and 'happened' to chat with Mrs. Wang next door. She 'happened' to mention our visitor.”
He said it casually, but I could imagine exactly how the scene had played out.
With Luke's strategic mind, I was certain Mrs. Wang had not only failed to extract any useful information, but had probably been thoroughly charmed into believing he was the perfect doting husband.
Looking at him now, I wondered if I'd accidentally struck gold with my impulsive proposal.
“Let's eat before it gets cold,” he said, pulling out my chair with practiced ease.
I sat, feeling strangely like I was being waited on at a fine restaurant.
He served me rice, and I tried the chicken first.
The chicken was perfect—crispy skin, tender meat, the sauce balanced between sweet and savory with just a hint of ginger.
It was better than anything I'd eaten at five-star restaurants.
“Good?” he asked, watching me with what almost looked like anticipation.
“It's… adequate,” I mumbled, turning away. I'd die before admitting that a simple chicken wing had nearly brought me to tears.
His expression told me he wasn't fooled for a second.
We ate in comfortable silence.
No conversation, just the occasional soft clink of chopsticks against bowls. Yet somehow, it wasn't awkward. There was an unexpected harmony to it.
When we finished, I started to clear the table, but he was faster.
“I've got this.”
“No, this is my home, I should—”
“I said, I've got it.” His tone left no room for argument.
And just like that, he gathered the dishes and disappeared into the kitchen. Soon I heard water running.
I stood awkwardly in my own living room, watching his broad shoulders beneath that ridiculous pink apron, feeling strangely like a guest in my own home.
How many layers did this man have that I hadn't yet seen?
