Stella’s POV
Hours later, I lay in our king-sized bed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come, my mind replaying the events of the night.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:23. Adam still hadn't come to bed. The sliver of light under the door suggested he was in his study, likely working—his typical response to emotional turmoil.
I threw off the covers. The bedroom suddenly felt stifling, the air too heavy to breathe. I needed to clear my head, perhaps a walk in the garden. The night air might help calm the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind.
I quietly donned my robe and soft slippers, gently opening the bedroom door—only to find Adam sitting in the hallway in his wheelchair, a laptop balanced on his lap, the screen illuminating his tired face.
He looked up as I stepped out. "Where are you going?"
The question sounded casual, but there was an edge to his tone.
"Just needed some fresh air," I replied, trying to move past him towards the stairs.
Adam maneuvered his wheelchair to block my path. "It's past one in the morning, Stella."
"I know what time it is." I tried to sidestep him, but he moved again, blocking me.
"Stella," his voice hardened, "what's going on with you tonight?"
"Nothing." I crossed my arms defensively.
"Nothing?" He narrowed his eyes. "You've been acting strange since we got back from the party. If this is about the hairpin James gave you, then—"
"This isn't about James," I interrupted, my frustration mounting.
Adam's jaw tightened. "Then what is it? Stella, you're the only person who makes me ask the same question twice."
I bit my lip, torn between confronting him directly or keeping my suspicions to myself. What if I was overreacting? What if Grace really was just a childhood friend? But why had a woman answered his private call?
"What were you doing in Toronto?" I finally asked, watching his face closely for any reaction.
For a moment, surprise flickered across his features. "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious." I tried to sound nonchalant, but my voice betrayed me, higher than usual.
Adam studied me, his green eyes inscrutable. "Business. I told you before I left."
His dismissive attitude only fueled my frustration. "Fine. Whatever. It doesn't matter." I turned to head back to the bedroom. But before I reached the door, I remembered something.
"Wait," I told him, disappearing into the room. Moments later, I returned with a package wrapped in simple blue paper. "I was going to give you this when you got back from Toronto, but then... well, things happened."
Adam took the package, looking puzzled. Carefully unwrapping it, he revealed a hand-knitted, dark green scarf—the color chosen to match his eyes. It was wider than a traditional scarf, with intricate patterns.
"I promised you a gift," I explained, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his intense gaze. "It's a bit large, so you can use it as a lap blanket too—though I don't know why you insist on pretending to be disabled."
The lines of Adam's mouth softened, not quite a smile, but no longer the hard lines of anger. His fingers traced the patterns on the scarf, lingering on the initials I had painstakingly woven into the fabric.
"You made this?" he asked, his voice unusually gentle.
I nodded, then took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Adam. I overreacted today. It was inappropriate to question you like that. I think I need some space to sort out my thoughts. Maybe I should sleep in my own room tonight."
The softness in Adam's face vanished instantly. "What did you say?"
"I said I should sleep in my own room," I repeated, confused by his sudden change in demeanor.
Adam narrowed his eyes, gripping the scarf tightly. "Is that what you mean? A parting gift?"
"What? No!" I protested, bewildered by his conclusion. "It's just a gift, Adam. The one I promised you."
"Then why are you talking about sleeping separately?" His voice took on that dangerous edge I knew so well. "Stella, you're my wife. You give me a scarf and then talk about sleeping elsewhere—what am I supposed to think?"
"It's not like that," I insisted, realizing how my words must have sounded to him. "I just need some time to process everything."
"Process what?" Adam demanded, wheeling closer. "The fact that I attended a friend's exhibition? Or that she borrowed my phone for a few minutes?"
"I just—can't be in the same room with you right now!" The words burst out before I could stop them, driven by frustration and exhaustion.
Adam went still, his expression hardening into the cold mask he wore when dealing with business adversaries. "Fine," his voice was icy. "If that's what you want."
Without warning, he tossed the scarf into the nearby trash bin, the handmade gift landing among crumpled papers and tissues with a soft thud.
"You think I care?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Stay in your room, Stella. See if I care."
With that, he wheeled away towards the elevator at the end of the hallway, leaving me standing alone at the bedroom door.
I stared at the trash bin, the green scarf stark against the white tissues. My heart felt like it had been struck by an invisible force, a dull ache spreading through my chest. Three weeks of work, countless hours learning to knit, all discarded in a moment of anger.
I slowly returned to the bedroom, gently closing the door behind me. Only then did I allow the tears to fall.