The scent of rosemary and butter spread throughout the penthouse kitchen. Elisa, wearing an apron with her face slightly flushed from the heat of the oven, was putting the finishing touches on the parmesan risotto with filet in wine sauce. Mrs. Célia, as always, was her silent ally.
It's perfect, Mrs. Elisa, said the housekeeper, tasting with a wooden spoon. He'll love it. It's his favorite dish.
Elisa smiled, but there was something reserved in that smile. A discreet gleam in her eyes. That night was special for her, even if no one knew why.
That afternoon, she had sold her first composition. An original score for a string quartet, under the pseudonym Clara Vianna. The buyer, a respected professor from the Villa-Lobos Conservatory, had praised her technique and musical sensitivity.
Elisa had felt her heart vibrate with pride. A part of herself was reborn, not the invisible wife, but the forgotten artist who still lived within her.
Without telling Eduardo anything, she decided to celebrate with a simple gesture: a dinner made with love. Not out of obligation. But from a desire to share something, however small.
At 7:45 PM, she sent a message:
I prepared dinner tonight. Expecting you at 8 PM.
A few minutes later, he replied:
Ok. I'll be home.
Elisa felt her stomach turn... with anxiety. As she always did when he promised something. She put on a light beige linen dress, styled her hair in a loose bun, and applied a subtle perfume. The table was set with low candles, wine glasses, and a heated serving dish. Everything simple, but elegant. Everything with care.
At 8:10 PM, she was still waiting.
At 8:30 PM, she tried to convince herself that traffic could be to blame.
At 9:10 PM, the food was beginning to get cold.
Mrs. Célia observed her with pity, hands clasped over her apron.
Perhaps he's running late, ma'am. His commitments often change...
Elisa merely nodded, trying to keep her face serene. But inside, frustration was beginning to throb.
At 10 PM, she extinguished the candles on the table, removed the plates, and went upstairs to her bedroom in silence.
Alone, once again.
------
The next morning, Eduardo came down for breakfast. Already dressed for work, with the same impeccable coldness as always. He found Mrs. Célia tidying up the kitchen.
Good morning! ... he said, without taking his eyes off his cell phone.
Good morning, sir. Did you enjoy last night's dinner? Mrs. Elisa put so much effort into it...
Eduardo stopped.
He slowly raised his eyes.
Dinner?
Yes... she prepared everything with care. It was a special night for her. She waited for you until late. Said you had confirmed.
He frowned, confused. Searched his memory. The quick response. The automatic "ok."
And then he remembered.
The dinner with the investor. The last-minute invitation.
And his complete forgetting of Elisa.
He swallowed hard. But said nothing.
He climbed the stairs with firm steps. Knocked on her bedroom door with his fist.
She opened it minutes later, her hair still wet from the shower and wearing a light robe. Seeing him, she straightened with surprise.
Did something happen?
He crossed his arms.
Don't use me as an excuse to play the good wife. This little theater of dinners, perfumes, and favorite dishes won't change anything between us.
Elisa froze.
Excuse me?
You're trying to seduce me with these empty attempts at "being the ideal woman." He moved closer, his gaze hard. But this isn't a fairy tale. And I'm not interested in pretending intimacy.
She took a deep breath. Her face, still damp from the shower, couldn't hide the pain that was beginning to fill her eyes.
I wasn't trying to seduce you, Eduardo. I was just celebrating something... and wanted to share a moment. That's all.
Celebrating what?
She hesitated. Almost told him.
But changed her mind.
Nothing that matters to you.
He frowned, confused by her sudden firmness.
Then please stop this. Live your peaceful life. I don't need pampering. Or a trophy wife.
I know, she replied, with a choked voice. It's been clear for a long time.
And before he could say anything else, she gently closed the door.
------
Sitting on the bed, Elisa let the tears fall in a controlled manner. Not out of weakness. But from exhaustion. From always trying to fill a void that wasn't hers. From trying to reach a man who only saw in her what he wanted to despise.
The dinner was still in the kitchen.
The music score, on the veranda table.
And her heart... increasingly distant from Eduardo Castro