Chapter 16 Snow Outside, Fire Inside

Chapter 16 Snow Outside, Fire Inside
I closed the bedroom door softly, but with intent. The kind of sound heels make on empty marble — not loud, just loud enough to say: don’t follow. Don’t ask. And don’t pretend you don’t know I’m in no mood to talk.
I climbed onto the bed like a pissed-off rich widow coming home from a charity gala only to find her chauffeur parked in the wrong spot. Threw the blanket. Flopped face down. Dragged a pillow over my head. I didn’t even bother taking off my hoodie.
iPad? Yeah. Grabbed it. For what? Who knows. Maybe the internet held the answers the real world refused to give.
Scroll. Scroll. Notification tab.
Snow tapped the windows outside, soft and slow like the background track of a sad indie film with too many awards. And me? I was the moody in slow and moody.
My thumb hovered over Instagram. I exhaled. Tapped.
Search: @zadesolenzara
Of course it was private. Of course he only had two photos. One of Zoey — standing by the pool in floaties way too big, wearing the proudest face like she just swam the Mariana Trench.
The second...
My silhouette.
Just my shoulder, a sliver of my neck. My hair tied up, the sunset covering everything else. The caption? Only: my reason.
Yeah. I almost cried when he posted it. Back then, it felt like I mattered. Like I was seen. Like I was... chosen.
But now? Now I hovered over the ‘following’ button.
And here we are.
He only followed 11 accounts. Including me, Zoey (who ran a doll account with more followers than I’d ever have), Sasha, some Italian wine page, a few family members and...
Camille.
@camille.lenoir.paris
Her account popped up like it had been waiting this whole time. Profile pic? Black and white. Woman with long hair, a silk scarf, and lips that looked painted by an oil brush.
And the bio? "Paris is for lovers. Or fighters. Depends on the night."
Oh good. She’s poetic. Of course she is.
I tapped in.
Private. Naturally. But her name in the bio made my left eyebrow twitch two full millimeters. She wasn’t just “Camille.” She was Camille Lenoir, founder of Lenoir Atelier, a fashion foundation for orphans in Paris. Because of course this needed more Shakespeare. Philanthropy, glitter, and Zade. The holy trinity for turning a sane woman into... me.
And she was beautiful. Obviously. Because men like Zade don’t play in the local leagues. They play in leagues pronounced with a European accent and brunch menus with three-digit prices.
I stared at the iPad like I could burn her account through sheer rage. Maybe Zoey was right. I needed a pet. Like a chameleon. Or a dragon. Or a chameleon that breathed fire and ate Camilles.
I hugged the pillow tighter.
No sound from the hallway. Which meant Zade hadn’t come up yet. Still downstairs. Maybe still playing with Zoey. Or... typing a reply to Camille.
"Merci aussi. À bientôt."
Gross.
I shut the iPad with a long breath.
"Don’t be dramatic," I whispered to myself. "You’re not the type of woman who checks who her husband follows. You’re not—"
I grabbed the iPad again.
Scrolled.
Checked the wine account.
Okay, safe. No French-book-shelf-body women following that one.
I buried my face in the pillow and let out a short scream. Not because of Camille. But because I had no idea why I even cared this much.
He chose me. He sleeps next to me. He lounges on the couch in a faded hoodie and makes Zoey paper crowns every Sunday. But why... why could one name make me feel like I was sitting alone in a movie theater, watching a film I suddenly didn’t understand?
The sky outside grew darker. Snow piled thicker. The house was quiet.
But my mind?
Loud.
And my heart? Still racing.
Not from love.
But from the fear of losing something that... I didn’t even know had become so damn important.
Zade Solenzara.
My husband. Father of the tiny chaos tornado I call a daughter. And... the man quietly tearing down every wall I’d ever built.
Walls that now... shook.
And Camille?
Camille was just a shadow.
But the thing about shadows is... sometimes they make you forget where the light is coming from.
//
The stove flame was way too high. I didn’t care.
I sautéed the onions until they were nearly burned, then threw in the butter like I was avenging someone who’d ruined my appetite but still made me want to cook because, somehow, it was the only thing stopping me from hurling the iPad against a wall.
Zade hadn’t shown up in the kitchen since earlier. Maybe he was still upstairs with Zoey. Or maybe he was writing poetry for Camille in his Notes app. Or doing anything that I— nope. Stop.
I dropped the chicken into the pan and it sizzled like my soul trying not to make a sarcastic comment. The smell kicked in. Garlic, rosemary, and enough spices to make Gordon Ramsay raise an eyebrow.
My tea was cold. So was I.
An hour later, the table was set. Plates lined up. Napkins folded like I was running a two-and-a-half-star restaurant. And in the middle, a salad I made without love and a roast chicken seasoned with frustration and extra virgin olive oil.
Zoey came in first, obviously, wearing a cape made from a blanket and a face like she just slayed a dragon.
“I’m HUNGRY, Mommy!”
“Yeah, you said that two hours ago when you stole cookies.”
She flopped into her booster seat with dramatic flair. “That was an appetizer.”
Zade walked in a beat later. Dark hoodie. Hair still a little damp—probably fresh from the shower. His eyes went straight to mine. But I was too busy scooping mashed potatoes onto a plate. Oops. Didn’t see you.
“Smells amazing,” he said eventually, settling into his chair.
“Uh-huh.” No smile. No eye contact. No breath scented with compliments.
He paused, then quietly started serving himself. I could feel him watching me. Which was exactly why I didn’t dare look up. Because if I did... I might melt. Or snap. Or both. And that’s not a healthy combo while holding a dinner knife.
Zoey broke the tension (or made it worse, depending on your angle) in her signature fashion.
“Mommy, I saw a snowbird today!”
“A snowbird?” I repeated.
“Yeah! It was white but, like... sneaky. I called it, but it ran away. Daddy said it was a spy from the Ice Kingdom.”
I glanced at Zade. He was suddenly very interested in his potatoes. “A spy, huh?”
He shrugged. “You weren’t there. It almost kidnapped Zoey.”
Zoey nodded solemnly. “But I had my toilet wand!”
I sighed. “Don’t bring that wand to school, Zoey. Your teacher will need therapy.”
“I already hid it in the secret drawer,” she mumbled proudly.
Dinner went on in a mess of fork clinks and Zoey’s wild stories that somehow included a unicorn, a winged worm, and Aram—who, according to her, couldn’t smile because he “ate a lemon when he was a baby.”
Zade chuckled a few times. I smiled a little too. But it was all... halfway. Because underneath it all, I still heard one name echoing. Camille. And even if Zade didn’t realize it, my coldness wasn’t some tactic. It was armor.
“I like the chicken,” he said softly, just as Zoey started drawing ketchup art on her napkin.
“Good.” Sharp. Cold enough to freeze the air.
He didn’t respond. But he felt it.
And even though part of me wanted to say: ask me why I’m like this,
another part just wanted him to already know.
That I could forgive small things.
But I could also feel small over the things he hadn’t said.
Zoey let out a big yawn. Her head tilted. A grain of rice clung to her cheek.
Zade stood, lifting her with one arm like she was a stuffed animal.
“I’ll take her up,” he said.
I nodded.
“Thanks,” he added.
I didn’t answer.
And he knew that.
As his footsteps faded down the hall and the stairs creaked, I leaned back in my chair. The plates were still full.
But I wasn’t hungry.
Not with this bitterness in my mouth.
The kind even rosemary couldn’t cover.