I froze. After seven years together, he still didn’t know—or didn’t care—that I was allergic to peanuts. The chocolate croissants weren’t for me. They were for Fiona.
“We’ve been together for seven years,” I said quietly, “and you still don’t know I can’t eat peanuts?”
His expression darkened, frustration clouding his features. “Stop making a fuss. Eat or don’t. I don’t care.”
I didn’t argue. Instead, I walked to the bedroom, grabbed the lace bra, and returned. I handed it to him, my voice steady. “When you see Fiona later, return this to her.”
Ethan’s brows furrowed as he peeked inside the bag. When he saw the lace bra, surprise flickered across his face. He opened his mouth, probably to deny or explain, but when he saw my calm expression, he said, “I’ll tell her to stop leaving things around.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, turning away.
For a moment, Ethan seemed to sense something was wrong. “I can give you a ride to work,” he offered, as if that would fix everything.
Seven years together, and not once had he driven me to work. I had trudged through storms, through snow, without a single offer of help. Yet Fiona, on her very first day, was chauffeured by him like a queen.