Chapter 142

Chapter 142
Edward POV

I'd tasted Michelin-starred cuisine in Paris, Monaco, Tokyo. I'd sat through countless business dinners where each course was a calculated masterpiece of molecular gastronomy, where wine pairings were discussed with the reverence usually reserved for corporate acquisitions. I'd grown up at tables where every meal was an exhibition of wealth and refinement, where the china was worth more than most people's cars and the silverware had been in my family for generations.

None of it had prepared me for this.

The spare ribs glistened under the overhead light of Anna's modest dining table, their surface caramelized to a deep mahogany, the sauce clinging to each piece in a way that suggested hours of patient reduction rather than the forty-five minutes it had actually taken. Steam rose from the baby bok choy, the garlic-infused oil catching the light, and the seaweed egg drop soup sent up delicate wisps of fragrance that somehow managed to smell like comfort itself.

Anna had set the table with simple white plates, no ceremony, no pretense. There were no candles, no carefully selected wine pairing, no staff hovering at the periphery waiting to refill water glasses. Just two plates, two sets of silverware, and three dishes that filled the small apartment with warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature.

I picked up my fork and knife, cutting into a piece of spare rib. The moment the meat hit my tongue, I went completely still.

The sauce was perfect, sweet and tangy in equal measure, with just enough vinegar to cut through the richness of the pork. The meat itself was tender enough to fall off the bone, yet still had that slight resistance that indicated it had been cooked with care rather than simply boiled into submission. There was a hint of char on the edges, a whisper of caramelization that added depth to each bite. But more than the technical excellence, more than the balance of flavors, there was something else—something I couldn't quite name but felt in my chest like a physical weight.

This was home cooking. Not the kind of home I'd grown up in, where meals were prepared by professional chefs in industrial kitchens and served by staff who knew better than to speak unless spoken to. This was the kind of home I'd seen in movies, in television shows, in the lives of people who weren't born into dynasties and expectations. This was the taste of being cared for, of someone taking the time to create something specifically meant to nourish and comfort, not to impress or intimidate.

I set down my fork and just sat there for a moment, trying to process the unexpected surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm me. Anna was watching me with those expressive blue eyes, a slight furrow between her brows that suggested she was worried about my reaction, and that small sign of uncertainty made something in my chest constrict painfully.

When had anyone last worried about whether I liked their cooking? When had anyone last made me something with their own hands, not because they were paid to do so or because it was expected, but simply because they wanted to feed me?

I picked up another piece of rib with my fork, then reached for the baby bok choy. The garlic was fresh and pungent, the greens still had a slight snap to them, and the whole thing was seasoned with exactly the right amount of salt. Simple. Perfect. The kind of dish that spoke of someone who understood that complexity wasn't always necessary, that sometimes the most profound experiences came from the most straightforward preparations.

The soup was delicate, the egg forming silky ribbons in the clear broth, the seaweed adding just enough umami to make each spoonful feel complete. I could taste the care in every element—the stock had been made from scratch rather than from a bouillon cube, the eggs had been beaten just enough to create texture without becoming rubbery, even the scallions floating on top had been cut at the perfect angle.

But it was more than the food itself. It was the memory of shopping with her, of watching her examine each piece of produce with the same focus I brought to financial statements, of her patient explanations about what to look for in quality ingredients. It was the memory of standing beside her in that cramped kitchen, my sleeves rolled up, following her instructions to wash vegetables and measure out ingredients. It was the memory of her gentle corrections when I'd chosen the wrong bok choy, the way her eyes had lit up when I'd correctly anticipated that she'd need ginger and scallions, the small smile she'd tried to hide when I'd presented her with the cilantro I hadn't been asked to get.

Every moment of this afternoon played through my mind like a film reel I couldn't stop, each memory overlaid with a painful awareness of what should have been. This could have been our life. This simple, ordinary routine of shopping together, cooking together, sitting down to share a meal in comfortable domesticity—this could have been what our marriage looked like if I hadn't been so goddamn blind.

I thought about the Frost Estate, about those formal dining rooms where Anna and I had sat at opposite ends of a table long enough to seat twenty, where staff served course after course while we ate in near silence. I thought about how I'd criticized her for not having an appetite, how I'd made comments about her needing to eat more to prepare her body for pregnancy, never once considering that maybe the problem wasn't her appetite but the environment in which she was expected to eat.

I thought about that night—the one she'd mentioned in the car, the one that had been haunting me since she'd brought it up. I could see it so clearly now, could reconstruct the scene with painful accuracy because I'd lived through it from my perspective, never once considering hers.

I'd come home late from a series of disastrous negotiations, my head full of spreadsheets and stock projections and the constant pressure of maintaining the Frost empire. I'd been exhausted, frustrated, feeling the weight of my father's expectations and my mother's silent disappointment and the board's subtle challenges to my authority. All I'd wanted was to retreat to my study with a glass of scotch and try to salvage something from the wreckage of the day.

But the kitchen light had been on. I'd walked in to find Anna standing there, still dressed despite the late hour, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, an apron tied around her waist. On the counter in front of her had been a bowl of noodles, steam still rising from the surface, scallions carefully arranged on top in a way that suggested she'd taken time with the presentation.

"I heard you come in," she'd said, and her voice had been soft, hopeful, with an undercurrent of something I'd been too self-absorbed to identify at the time. "I made you some noodles. I thought you might be hungry."

I could see her face so clearly now, the way her eyes had held a tentative brightness, the small smile that had curved her lips, the slight tension in her shoulders that suggested she was nervous about my reaction. She'd been wearing one of those simple dresses she favored, something modest and unremarkable, and her hands had been clasped together in front of her in a gesture that now screamed of vulnerability and hope.

And I—God, I had looked at those noodles, at her hopeful expression, and all I'd felt was irritation. Why was she doing this? Why was she wasting time on these domestic gestures when what I needed from her was to focus on her health, on preparing her body for the heir I needed to secure my position? The noodles had seemed like a distraction, a foolish attempt at playing house when we both knew what our marriage was really about.

"I'm not hungry," I'd said, my voice flat and dismissive. I could remember the exact tone I'd used, could hear the coldness in my own words as clearly as if I were speaking them now. "You should be resting, not staying up to cook."

And then—and this was the part that made my stomach turn now, the part that I would give anything to take back—I'd picked up that bowl she'd prepared with such care, walked to the trash can, and dumped the entire thing into the garbage. Right in front of her. I'd watched the noodles and broth splash into the bin, had heard the hollow sound of the empty bowl as I'd set it on the counter, and I hadn't looked back at her face. I hadn't wanted to see her reaction, hadn't wanted to deal with whatever emotion might have been there.

I'd simply turned and walked away, heading for my study, leaving her standing there in that kitchen with the evidence of my contempt still visible in the trash can.

Now, sitting at her table with the taste of her cooking still on my tongue, I could imagine all too clearly what that moment must have been like for her. The humiliation of watching me throw away something she'd made specifically for me. The rejection, not just of the food, but of the gesture itself, of her attempt to care for me in the only way she knew how. The message I'd sent—clear and brutal—that her efforts were not only unwanted but actively offensive to me.

Had she cried after I left? Had she stood there staring at that trash can, at the waste of her time and effort and hope? Or had she simply cleaned up in silence, swallowing down the hurt the way she'd learned to swallow everything else in that house?

The spare rib on my plate suddenly felt impossibly heavy. I set down my fork carefully, my appetite vanishing under the weight of my own guilt and self-loathing.