25. Allie
Allie
I caught my husband checking out my ass—which, frankly, was the entire point of these jeans.
Not that I’d ever admit it. No, these were my freedom jeans, my official uniform for the post-marital, screw-your-dress-code era of my life.
I’d been stuck in tasteful pencil skirts and stifling slacks long enough. Time to embrace the denim rebellion.
Comfortable? Hell no. Even the stretchy pair Violet swore by felt like I was squeezing into a sausage casing.
I’d never thought I’d miss corporate chic—but at least a pencil skirt didn’t require holding my breath, doing a full-body shimmy, and offering a prayer to the zipper gods.
Fashion may be pain, but nothing says winning like a man you didn’t even dress for getting caught gawking.
Skinny jeans it is.
I plated dinner with a little more flourish than necessary.
Not that Rico had specific culinary preferences beyond the grilled cheese he mysteriously demanded every Tuesday—which is why I’d purposely bought ingredients for a gourmet grilled cheese this Wednesday.
Because if he was going to be stubborn, I’d be petty. With extra Gruyère.
The prospect of irritating him thrilled me enough that I had to hide my grin. Which is ridiculous. I shouldn’t be this entertained by passive-aggressive sandwich warfare.
And that’s when I remembered: The note.
I’d left it smack in the middle of the coffee pot this morning—prime eye-level real estate—and now it was gone. Did he read it? Crumple it? Set it on fire? Honestly, I’d put money on the bonfire.
I lined up the plates with a perfectly seared steak, dollops of pesto, roasted potatoes, and glazed carrots.
Vibrant, balanced, borderline artistic. A meal so enticing that even a heartless android might reconsider its programming.
Then again, had I even seen Rico eat? Not at the wedding dinner, that’s for sure—though, to be fair, I’d been too busy pushing my food around the plate.
A stomach knotted with nerves doesn't leave room for much else.
Rico sat at the head of the table, naturally—because where else would the king of brooding masculinity perch? I slid the plate in front of him. His amber eyes flitted to mine for half a second. He nodded. No “thank you,” no grudging compliment, just stoic silence.
I ignore the tension, taking my seat beside him, and blink at the two glasses already full of rich, deep red wine.
I snatch mine up and down half in one go, topping it off without making eye contact.
If he insisted on sitting there, all brooding marble statue fueled by spite, I might as well stay hydrated while watching the show.
He didn’t speak. I didn’t either. Not because I couldn’t—I could monologue like it was my job—but because I enjoyed watching him stew. No one in his family seemed to push him, not from what I’d seen. Everyone tiptoed around Rico like he’d burst if motivated.
Well, newsflash: I wasn’t tiptoeing anywhere. If he thought he’d married some docile, submissive wife who’d quietly accept silence and avoidance, he was in for a rude awakening.
I've already seen enough red flags to decorate an entire parade route, so yeah—I'm holding him to every promise he made, no matter how creatively he tries to squirm out of them.
He bails on our wedding night, doesn't glance at me like I'm even mildly attractive, skips the compliments, and can't muster a "thanks" for dinner.
And I'm pretty sure the recent additions to the house are eating him alive.
Just wait until the rest of my deliveries show up. Petty? Maybe. Effective? Definitely.
If Rico thinks he can ice me out and leave me marinating in a house as cold and uninviting as his personality, he's got another thing coming. He'll either adapt to my changes or move out—and honestly, if he packs his bags, I doubt I'll lose sleep.
He didn’t even blink when I came home. Nope, he only emerged from his office when it suited him. Violet warned me he’s the definition of a workaholic—apparently, Dom once had to physically drag him out after a 72-hour bender of caffeine and spreadsheets.
So, great. Quality time? Out the window. Emotional availability? Ha. The man uses work like a shield, and clearly, I'm no exception.
“What do you think?” I ask, eyeing him as he cuts his steak into neat little cubes—robotic, precise, like he's prepping for surgery, not dinner. He flexes his hand between slices, clenching and unclenching his fist.
He nods without glancing up. “It’s fine.”
Fine? This steak is a masterpiece—buttery, melt-in-your-mouth perfection with a garlicky, wine-kissed crust and a whisper of brown sugar. It’s a steak that deserves poetry, not a half-assed "fine."
I watch him from the corner of my eye, afraid that direct contact might turn me to stone. Though, calling him Medusa feels off. He’s less mythical monster and more... storm cloud. A cold front of doom, ready to suck me in and spit me out, personality optional.
He lifts a perfectly cubed piece of steak to his lips and pulls it off the fork with maddening slowness. No scraping teeth. No rushed bite. Just deliberate, almost sensual consumption—and, yeah, my thighs press together.
He’s not trying to be seductive. After last night’s rejection, it’s clear he has zero interest in anything remotely close to seduction. And yet, the way he eats—so controlled, so painfully delicate—has my insides flipping and begging for more.
My throat goes dry. Sahara levels. Probably because all available moisture has migrated south. Fantastic. Why, body? Why are we drooling over the same man who basically stamped "return to sender" on our wedding night? Clearly, I'm just as broken as he is.
He doesn’t even want you, and you’re over here puddling like a teenager with her first crush.
I grab my wine and down half the glass, praying it drowns the tension simmering under my skin. But when I set the glass down, I catch him watching me—silent, unreadable, and definitely not "fine."
I set my fork down and delicately dab my mouth with my napkin, channeling the prim little princess I was raised to be. Then I glance at him.
"What?"
It comes out fiercer than intended, but can you blame me? I’m a woman currently waging war against my hormones, mourning the fact that I’ve landed myself in a wordless marriage, and—to top it all off—discovering that I find his brooding, grumpy asshole hot.
That has to be hormonal sabotage, right? There’s no other plausible explanation for finding this attractive.
Unless I’m clinically deranged.
Either way, it’s not looking good for me.
He just shakes his head, not bothering to grace me with an actual response, and goes back to cutting his carrots with the same infuriating precision he applied to his steak—perfect little orange circles, lined up and prepping for a photoshoot with Better Homes & Gardens.
My cheeks flush, my spine prickles, and my heart pounds so loudly I’m half convinced he can hear it echoing off the walls.
And no, it’s not the carrot-chopping prowess making me sweat.
It’s everything else—the fact that my body is betraying me, the way he’s already found two loopholes around our agreement, and, worst of all, how pathetic I feel for still craving his attention after he’s made it abundantly clear he doesn’t need mine.
"Oh my God, enough!" I slam my cutlery down, the new china plates rattling in protest. Great—the plates have more emotional range than my husband. I probably shouldn’t unpack the fact that the man I married is currently losing a personality contest to an inanimate object.
Rico freezes, fork hovering midair over a carrot like someone hit his pause button. His eyes flick up, meeting mine.
I’m two seconds away from flicking his nose just to see if he’s stuck buffering when he blinks.
And then—finally—his gaze drops, slow and deliberate.
Down my neck, tracking the hard swallow I can’t suppress, then lower…
to my chest, where my traitorous nipples perk right up with an introductory wave and "nice to meet you. "
I grit my teeth, willing my body to get on the same page as my brain—the page that clearly says he doesn’t want you, dumbass.
But he keeps looking. Grazing me. Consuming me. Flaring up every inch of skin with nothing but his eyes. His fork’s still frozen mid-air, but I’m the one melting—fully clothed, yet somehow feeling like he’s just stripped me down and mapped every inch with his tongue.
Unfair. It’s downright unfair that a man can wield eye contact like it’s a superpower.
For half a second—half a second—I swear I see hunger flicker in those amber eyes, the same look I thought I imagined when I walked down the aisle. But just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes, snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
What—did he not like what he saw? I’ve never questioned my looks a day in my life, and now I’m married to a man who makes me wonder if I’ve been delusional this whole time. I'm sure that’ll bode well for my self-esteem long-term.
But I’m done playing this game. I turn in my chair to face him, inhaling deeply, silently begging the snarky little bitch inside me to stand down. She’s ready to claw her way out, talons bared and fully prepared to take his beautiful amber eyeballs as souvenirs.
“Rico. I made us dinner. I added life to this cave you call a home. I’m your wife. Your. Wife. And you don’t even look at me like I’m remotely attractive. Honestly, I feel like a blister—annoying, inconvenient, and definitely not something you’d ever want to touch, sexually or otherwise.”
He calmly sets his fork and knife down, then wipes his mouth with precision so practiced I’m two seconds from whipping him with said napkin.
“You’re not a blister.”
Wow. Be still my beating heart. I’m practically swooning over here.
My skin burns, and I’m positive my cheeks now resemble the merlot in my glass. Maybe it's the wine causing the flush, but no… that’s pure, unfiltered rage with a dash of heartbreak.