He froze, the spoon clinking against the pan, eyes flicking to me with a practiced calm.
“Elena, you shouldn’t—”
“No more stupid excuses!” I lunged, grabbing the edge of the counter. “You said you couldn’t talk about work. You said you needed one place we didn’t have to discuss it. Is this that place?”
His shoulders tightened; a sigh escaped his lips, heavy with something unspoken.
“You don’t understand—”
I slammed my palm against the countertop, the sound echoing off the tiles. “Then tell me. I saw the waiting room, the women, the reviews. I saw you standing there, pretending to be a stranger.” My fingers trembled, the memory of their quiet reverence when his name was spoken still vivid.
He turned fully, his face a mask of fatigue and something darker.
