Chapter 15
271words
Several luxury yachts lit up the Thames like a floating city.
Servers in revealing outfits, some being pulled directly onto guests' laps.
Alaric lounged on a white leather sofa, Vivienne pressed against his side.
At dawn, I finally texted Alaric.
I'd been waiting for him to address things first, but I couldn't bear the silence any longer.
Continuing this charade would only prolong the torture.
If Alaric couldn't bring himself to end things, then I would.
I asked him to come home for dinner tonight.
Alaric's reply was simple: "Okay."
I spent the morning at the supermarket.
I'm a good cook—when you've been preparing meals since before you could see over the stove, you learn quickly. Cook poorly, and you either starve or get beaten.
Over time, I'd developed real skill.
In Brighton, Alaric had refused to let me cook. Back in London, we had three professional chefs.
Alaric came home late. The food, reheated multiple times, had lost all its flavor.
"Should I make something fresh?" I asked, trying to hide my disappointment.
I'd just wanted one last perfect meal together.
He pressed his temples. "Don't trouble yourself."
The maid serving us added: "Miss Aria made everything herself. She's been cooking all day."
Alaric's hand froze mid-air. He looked up at me.
Something in his eyes suggested he sensed something was wrong.
"Let's eat," I said with a smile.
My plan was simple—after dinner, I'd tell him everything clearly.
But fate had other plans.
The maid brought in soup, and suddenly I couldn't bear the smell. I clutched the edge of the table, gagging.
