A few days later, Margaret had Mila over for dinner.

The moment she walked through the door, Mila made a beeline for the kitchen, glancing back at my mother-in-law. "Margaret, let me cook for you and Zaiden tonight. It's the least I can do after how wonderful you've been to me."

Margaret beamed. "Alright, alright, whatever you like, dear."

Then she turned to Zaiden. "Zaiden, go help Mila in the kitchen. Don't let her wear herself out."

Zaiden smiled and nodded, and just like that, everyone fell into their roles, moving together like a well-oiled machine. I stood off to the side like some forgotten relic, silently watching this picture-perfect family scene play out.

This was supposed to be my home. But right now, they looked more like a family than I ever was, and I felt like the outsider.

Mila whipped up an Italian feast. Lobster, shrimp, sea bass—every dish golden and mouthwatering, the kind that made your stomach rumble just looking at it. But I'd been allergic to seafood since I was a kid. Even a tiny bite could break me out in hives, or worse, send me into anaphylactic shock.

Zaiden knew that. But he hadn't made a single damn thing I could eat. Staring at the spread in front of me, I set my fork down and forced a smile.

Catching my hesitation, Mila shot me a playful grin. "What's the matter? Don't you like it, Kataleya?"

Margaret's face immediately pinched with disapproval. "Mila came all the way here. Are you trying to upset her on purpose? Just eat it. Show a little gratitude for all the effort she put in. Honestly, sometimes you're so inconsiderate."

Desperate, I shot Zaiden a pleading look, but all I got was an icy stare. "Kataleya, you heard my mom. Or did you just tune her out? Mila worked hard on this. Quit acting like you're above it."

And just like that, it all clicked.

Under their watchful gazes, I started forcing down the seafood, bite by bitter bite. Every swallow scraped down my throat like shards of glass. But even as I choked it down, I held onto the tiniest shred of dignity.

As I choked down the last bite of seafood, my body instantly revolted. A scorching pain seared through my throat, and my chest felt like a huge weight was crushing it. Around me, the laughter kept going, but the room started spinning. I stood up, swaying, my knuckles going white as I gripped the armrest to steady myself.

"I'm heading to my room," I somehow got out.

Not a soul paid me any mind. Zaiden didn't so much as glance my way. Only Mila bothered to answer, her voice dripping with mockery. "Take care of yourself, Kataleya."

I stumbled into the bathroom attached to our bedroom, desperate to vomit up that disgusting food, but nothing would come. I crouched by the toilet, letting the shower run to drown out the sound of my dry heaving. My white lace dress clung to me, soaked through, and dark bruises stained my thighs—just the sight of it made my stomach drop.

I even jammed my fingers down my throat, but all I did was draw blood. Dizzy and out of it, I somehow dragged myself to the bed and collapsed on top of it.

No one knocked. No one cared whether I lived or died.

It wasn't until evening, when Zaiden finally returned to the bedroom, that he even noticed me curled up on the bed. "Honey, what's wrong?" he asked, then it dawned on him. "Are you allergic to seafood?"

I stayed silent, my breathing the only sound filling the room. His sudden panic threw me off. He rushed to get allergy meds and tended to me all night long. Yet, not once did he mutter a single apology.

Even so, the tears still fell. I was grateful for even the tiniest scrap of care.

In my foggy state, it felt like we were tangled together once more, lost in a fleeting moment of tenderness.

A few days later, Mila called me up, asking me to come over to her place. She said it was her way of making things right.

Zaiden insisted I go.

So I went along with him.

The second I stepped inside, it hit me—Mila's house looked just like ours. Every piece of furniture, every damn color, even the feel of the sofa was creepily familiar. It left me totally unsettled, but Zaiden? He was acting like he'd been there a hundred times before.

Spotting my discomfort, Mila jumped in. "Kataleya, I am so sorry about your seafood allergy. You really suffered because of it. I asked Zaiden to bring you here so I could apologize properly. Honestly, it's partly his fault for not mentioning it."

She pressed a cup of coffee into my hands. I took a few sips—it was cold. The chill slid right down to my stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

The house felt wrong the moment I stepped inside—like it had never been meant for me.

All I could do now was plan my own graceful exit somewhere in the days ahead.

I mumbled my apologies and headed home first, just like Zaiden had told me to.

Walking through my own front door, I felt completely disoriented. It was as if I'd never left Mila's at all. Or maybe I'd never even been there.

Before I left, Zaiden had mentioned he'd be back for a late-night snack. I said okay and went straight to the kitchen to whip up something special.

But by eleven, my husband still hadn't shown.

The longer I waited, the tighter my chest got. Without realizing it, I started digging my nails into my thighs. By the time I snapped out of it, my skin was already bruising.

I brought out the pulled pork sliders I'd made. For a split second, their warmth soothed the ache in my chest.

Then the warmth died. And I was left with nothing but the cold night and one exhausted woman.

When Zaiden finally walked in, I was about to drift off.

He looked a little surprised, then tossed out an excuse like it was nothing. "Sorry, Kataleya. Mila and I grabbed dinner and got caught up talking about work stuff. Time just ran away from me."

His eyes landed on the sliders sitting on the table. He paused—barely a heartbeat—then looked away, completely indifferent. "Did you make food? If you're hungry, just eat."

I gave him a quiet little noise of acknowledgment, way too drained to push him on it.

It was my idea. All mine. So why the hell did I exhaust myself making pulled pork sliders, knowing damn well he wouldn't care?

I stood up and tossed them straight into the trash.

Zaiden frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. I'm just not hungry."

"Don't waste food," he said flatly. "Mom wouldn't like it. Don't do that again."