Chapter 21
HAUYNE
Milo
The oven dinged just as the front door opened, and a smile stole across Milo’s lips. Perfect timing, he thought, as he carried his handmade lasagna to the table. He lit two candles and then slipped back into the kitchen for a pair of wine glasses.
Bea’s heels clicked down the hall, snapping to a halt just inside the dining room entry. “Milo?” She called out, a note of unease in her tone.
“Be right there,” he answered. He paused long enough to school his expression before walking back through the door—wine bottle in one hand, glasses in the other.
Bea looked . . . bewildered. She hesitated where she stood, fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against her clutch as she eyed the elaborate spread of dishes and finery. Milo could almost see the mental gymnastics she was performing, desperately working to determine which event she’d forgotten.
“Are you not going to sit?” Milo asked after the tense moment began to drift into awkward territory.
The question served to break Bea from her trance. She startled, then jerked forward, pulling out the closest seat in a rush. She cleared her throat. “Don’t hate me . . . but I think I’ve forgotten the occasion.”
“Does a man need an occasion to treat his wife?”
“Oh,” Bea breathed as she watched him pour the wine.
“It smells amazing.” She paused, and the silence grew weighty .
. . loaded with the questions she was clearly fighting the urge to ask.
The delay was short-lived, however, as with most inconveniences, Bea’s patience for subtlety crumpled swiftly.
“Is there something to celebrate? A new client?”
“Not at all.” Milo smiled pleasantly. “We’ve just been so busy with work lately, I thought we were overdue for a good talk.”
Bea nodded, clearly not convinced, yet too uncertain to push the matter further.
Milo pulled out a chair opposite her place at the table and took a seat, flashing her a quick smile before scooping a large helping onto his plate.
Bea followed suit, though she continued to cast nervous glances his way throughout dinner, anxious for him to speak so she could make better sense of the night.
Occasionally, he would straighten up and glance her way, like he was about to ask a question, and then, just as soon as she returned his attention, he’d turn back to his plate and quietly revel in her tiny sigh of frustrated confusion.
But just as he swallowed his final bite, Milo pulled out a large, flat, black box from the chair beside him and slid it across the table, offering a wink when Bea’s eyes grew wide at the unmistakable packaging.
“What is this?” she asked.
“A gift, since you’ve been so patient with me lately.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Bea whispered, though there was no weight behind her words. Her eyes were locked on the box, her fingers twitching against the instinct to snatch it.
“Go ahead,” Milo urged.
Bea needed no further encouragement before her plate was shoved to the side, and she was gasping at the contents within. Milo stood, walking around the table to peer down at the necklace over her shoulder. It was a statement piece, to be certain, with five oval stones in a row.
“Citrine, Hauyne, Emerald, Amethyst, and Topaz. In that order.”
“I’ve never heard of Hauyne,” Bea whispered, running a reverent finger along the sapphire look-alike.
“That stone was the most important part of the collection, in my opinion. It’s incredibly rare. It reminds me of you,” he whispered in her ear, reaching beyond her shoulder to lift the delicate chain from the box.
“What I find so fascinating is that the exorbitant price of this gemstone is heavily driven by how difficult it is to craft with. You see . . . it’s a very brittle little gem.
Very likely to shatter right there in your hands and cut you open, if you dare work with it.
Even once it’s been set into a piece of jewelry.
” Milo ran a thumb over the bright blue stone before turning the necklace around and resting it at the base of Bea’s neck.
“Even after it’s found its home, it’s still prone to breaking apart and ruining the entire design.
And yet,” he continued, “people find themselves helplessly infatuated with its brilliant, bold nature and continue to seek it out—paying the most outrageous prices for the simple opportunity to collect such a rare piece.”
Bea’s hand rose to touch the necklace that now rested an inch below her collarbone, then froze when Milo’s hand lingered at her neck for a moment longer, tracing an invisible line across her shoulder and down to her elbow.
“W-what are you doing?”
“We’ve both been so caught up in life that we haven’t had time for each other in a few weeks. I thought we could take this to the bedroom next?” Milo whispered, running the tips of his fingers up the back of her arm.
“I– no . . . I mean, just . . . not tonight.”
“Oh?” Milo asked, striving to keep the laughter out of his voice—she did have a much more pressing itch to scratch at the moment. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, not at all,” Bea emphasized. “It’s just, uh, you know . . . that time of the month.”
“That’s not right,” Milo said, very proud of the ringing note of faux concern he could hear echoing in his voice.
He pulled up the Flo app on his phone and flashed Bea the screen.
She’d sent him the link years ago, so that he could surprise her with care packages.
“You’ve still got another two weeks. If it came that early, we should probably get you an appointment to make sure things are alright.
Though . . . you don’t suppose it could be menopause? ”
Bea gasped, affronted. “I’m thirty-four.”
“Yeah, I agree, not exactly a spring chicken. But maybe we should still schedule the appointment, just to confirm?”
Bea sputtered, her face reddening. “It’s not fucking menopause. I’m not on my period!”
“Oh?” Milo answered, snagging the wine bottle and his glass from the table and filling it to the brim. “I apologize for assuming. What did you mean by that time of the month?”
“Just, well, you know . . .”
Milo drew his lips back as he shook his head, then took a long swallow. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“It’s that time of the month when work picks up. Obviously.” Bea snapped. “I’m exhausted.”
“That’s . . . interesting,” Milo mused, holding her glare. “The only time I typically see a rush of customers on the financials is after the fresh honey harvest in July, and that’s already occurred.” Milo clucked his tongue, idly rubbing his chin as he pretended to consider her words.
It was a pointless endeavor. She wouldn’t know when the busy season was, even if she did spend her days at the shop.
Bea may have requested that the store be put in her name, but it was Milo running the logistics behind the scenes.
It always had been. He managed the finances, placed the orders, and handled the bees.
The shop was lucrative, but only because of Milo’s beekeeping and the top-notch manager he’d insisted she hire.
Sometimes, he wasn’t sure if she even truly knew how much he did.
“I didn’t see a crazy influx of customers on the bank statements either this past week. And I just came in Tuesday evening to restock, so there shouldn’t have been inventory concerns. Are you feeling overworked? Maybe we should look at hiring a second manager to help with those day-to-day tasks.”
“No,” Bea snapped. “I don’t need another manager. I just mean that it’s been a long day and I’d like to rest.”
Milo held up his hands in mock surrender. “I understand, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to come across as pushy. You’ve just never really not wanted to, so I thought something must be wrong.”
Bea fidgeted, twisting the napkin in her lap. “Nothing’s wrong. And I really appreciate dinner. And the gift. It means a lot.”
Milo nodded graciously. “How about another quick drink, and then we call it a night? It is a special bottle after all.”
Bea’s eyes darted down at his words, and she gasped aloud. “What are you doing? We were supposed to save that for our twenty-year anniversary!”
He held her gaze for a long beat and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
As if they would’ve ever made it twenty years.
No need to let such a fine drink go to waste waiting for such an improbable date.
For a moment, he considered dropping the ruse—but he’d already laid such beautiful groundwork—so he forged ahead, intent on a confession.
“I was hoping maybe it would bring us closer, having a little throwback to our wedding night. I really feel like we’ve been drifting apart these last few weeks. Do you not feel the same?”
Bea took a quick swallow of her drink, her nails clicking sharply against the glass as she resumed her tapping. “I hadn’t realized.”
“We don’t even snuggle anymore. How about we go up now and just watch a movie? I don’t mind if you fall asleep.”
“Actually . . . I have a bit of marketing to catch up on.”
“I thought you said you did that last week, the night I left with Eliana for the workshop?”
“Well, I planned to, but something came up.”
“What came up?”
Bea didn’t answer—the tap, tap, tap, growing louder and faster with each beat of silence.
“Or,” Milo continued, “maybe the better question is who?”
Bea blinked repeatedly, her eyes comically wide, before she met Milo’s waiting stare, and her face paled. The tapping stopped.
“You know,” she whispered.
“Maybe,” he hedged, dropping the smile. “But I’d like for you to say it.”
“I–I have nothing to confess. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“What do I have wrong?”
“I’m not cheating.” She rushed to say, glancing around like she expected a camera crew to leap from the shadows.
Milo’s expression tightened as he held her stare. “I do not need you to confess,” he said, turning his phone around to show Bea the same clip that he’d shown Eliana a day past. “This speaks for itself quite well. My wanting to hear you say it is purely that . . . a want on my part.”
As the video played, Bea’s face lost all remaining color so quickly that Milo was surprised she remained upright.
“You have me on camera?”
“Of course I do. You’re not really putting much effort into hiding it.
You wanted to go to a beekeeping conference?
” Milo rolled his eyes, remembering the depth of his confusion when she’d brought up the idea so many months ago.
“Come on. I’ll be honest, I thought it was for appearances at the time, but a sexcation makes a lot more sense in hindsight. ”
“What are you going to do?”
Milo scoffed. “I think the better question is, what are you going to do? I’ve already initiated divorce proceedings, and given that the prenup has clearly been violated, the only thing you have a right to is the store.
The house, the furniture, the bees, even your phone—they will all remain with me.
But you can keep the necklace. It’s worth a decent penny, though .
. . I do hope you continue to wear it.” He paused, enjoying the bewilderment in her eyes.
Then he sat forward, delivering the final blow with tactile precision.
“I will give you four hours to pack up and get the fuck out of my house.”
“But–I–Milo, you can’t just—”
“I tell you what—I’ll let you have six hours and I’ll keep your phone on through the end of the month if you take accountability and tell me the truth right now.” Milo offered, still wanting to hear the words. It was the least of what she owed him.
“Tomorrow is the end of the month.” Bea pointed out.
“Huh . . . will you look at that.”
“You know what? Fuck you, Milo. Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?” Her voice turned desperate as she pleaded, “The shop doesn’t make any sense without the bees.”
Milo shrugged, one lone brow silently communicating the sardonic distaste he felt in her presence. “That sounds like a you problem, Beatrice. And as of today, you are no longer my problem.”