“Milo, ever since you got in the car, you’ve been glued to your phone.”

Her voice cut through the air, sharp with jealousy.

“Were you chatting with your cousin again? Or someone else I don’t know?”

I had already booked my flight, and without responding, I turned off my phone.

“Just reading the news,” I replied.

Her displeasure deepened at my words, the furrow between her brows deepening.

Suddenly, she snatched the phone from my hands, demanding my password.

“It’s my birthday.”

Nine years of marriage, and yet she kept entering the simple six-digit code wrong, frustration creeping into her face until the phone locked itself, stubbornly refusing to unlock.

We rode in silence, the tension hanging between us, until we reached our destination.

As soon as the car stopped, her pregnancy nausea hit, and she let Knox help her upstairs to the master bedroom.

Knox, playing the role of the doting husband, ordered the chef to prepare all her favorite dishes.

When she came downstairs, she saw me walking toward the guest room, the sight of my solitary figure striking a chord in her.