“Sir, if you’d like, I can have someone—”
But Victor pushed the door open without hesitation.
He walked in.
Stopped in front of me.
I was still holding the spoon.
Steam rose between us.
Adrian stood behind him, pale, tense, smiling in a way that didn’t hold anymore.
Victor dipped the spoon into the pot again, tasted it slowly, then looked at me like he had just found something he had been searching for his entire life.
“Who taught you to cook like this?” he asked.
The kitchen felt smaller.
Adrian opened his mouth, ready to answer for me.
But Victor raised his hand.
Silencing him.
“My grandmother,” I said. “And my mother.”
“Where are you from?”
“A small town.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
Adrian let out a tight laugh. “Sir, maybe we should go back—”
“I told you to be quiet.”
The air went cold.
I looked at my husband.
For the first time, he lowered his head.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel small.
I felt something else.
Justice.
“My mother’s name was Margaret Bennett,” I said.
Victor closed his eyes for a moment.
“Margaret…” he whispered.
Not like a name.
Like a wound.
“Your cooking tastes exactly like hers,” he said slowly.
My heart pounded.
“You knew her?”
He looked at me—truly looked at me.