Jennifer was in the kitchen, apron tied over a simple sundress, stirring a pot of creamy mushroom risotto.
She looked up, smiled warmly, but her eyes flicked between us—taking in Nathalie's unsteady gait, the faint red marks on my neck, the way we couldn't stop touching each other.
"Dinner's almost ready," she said cheerfully. "I made your favorite—risotto with truffle oil, grilled prawns, and that arugula salad you like.
"Emily's with Veronica and Mary tonight. Said they'd be back tomorrow afternoon."
Nathalie managed a tired smile. "Thank you, Jen. Smells incredible."
We sat at the dining table—candlelight, soft music, plates steaming. Nathalie ate slowly, leaning against my shoulder between bites, occasionally feeding me a prawn with her fingers.
Her jealousy hadn't faded; if anything, the quiet domesticity made it sharper. Every time she looked at me, there was a possessive glint.
