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."

Zaiden's brows furrowed with that all-too-familiar impatience. I looked up, meeting his gaze.

"Do you really think I'm just being petty? Jealous?"

I could deal with my feelings being brushed off, but I couldn't stand being dismissed and then blamed for it.

Zaiden said nothing.

Neither did I.

Maybe I was being naive—I already knew the answer, but I had to ask anyway. I waved him off, my voice cool. "I'm going to bed."

As I turned, I added, "And don't expect any more late-night snacks from me."

The next day, right on cue, a message from Mila came in.

"Kataleya, I'm really sorry about yesterday. I hope you weren't too upset."

It was like Zaiden had an endless list of things to talk about with her.

I shot back, "Mila, cut the act. We both know what's going on."

I didn't wait for a reply, dropping my phone as I left the room. That's when I caught Zaiden's voice, talking to his mom, Margaret.

"Mom, Kataleya's health is getting worse. Please, just ask Mila to be patient a little longer..."

It felt like a giant fist clenched around my heart.

What does he mean?

He knew. He'd known all along.

I was getting worse.