Verity pushed me out of the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
After seven years of being together, Verity initiated countless cold wars, each forcing me to swallow my pride to restore peace. But this time, I had genuinely reached my breaking point with her.
Verity remained locked away in the bedroom all night, ignoring any knock that might have come her way.
The following day, I went about my routine and prepared breakfast for both of us.
After finishing my meal and getting ready to leave for work, Verity stormed out of the study, her expression seething with anger.
Brandishing her phone like a weapon, she snapped, “Tyron, take the day off. By 5 PM this afternoon, I need you to make an identical fondant cake for me.”
My mother, a Le Cordon Bleu-trained pastry chef, had ignited a deep passion for baking in me from an early age. Since Verity and I had become a couple, making her birthday cakes each year had become a beloved tradition.
Recently, I noticed a striking football star lighting up her phone, Colton’s WhatsApp profile picture, and the sight sent a jolt of discomfort through me.