Chapter 4

Jorja, relieved by Arvin' s easy compliance, immediately started giving orders.

"The guest room at the end of the hall, the one with the balcony. Use the new linens," she told a nearby maid, before turning to Kallie.

Kallie, puffed up with self-importance, strutted over to Arvin. "And you," she commanded, "Cale's been traveling, he needs something light to eat. No spicy food, he can't handle it. Go make something."

Arvin stood motionless. For five years, the kitchen had been his domain. He had memorized Jorja's fickle tastes, her sudden cravings, her endless list of dislikes. His cooking was the one thing she never complained about, a silent truce in their cold war of a marriage. He remembered Kallie, a frequent and unwelcome guest, always finding fault. The soup was too salty, the steak overdone, the salad dressing too tart.

Now, she was ordering him to cook for the man who was the very reason for his presence in this house.

A quiet, final line had been crossed.

Arvin slowly shook his head. "No."

The single word hung in the air, sharp and shocking. The maids froze. Kallie' s jaw dropped. Even Jorja, who had been fussing over Cale, turned to stare at him, her eyes wide with disbelief.

In five years, he had never said no. Not once. He had been the epitome of agreeable, the perfect, pliable husband.

She frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "Arvin, what did you say?"

Just as she was about to press him, Cale stepped forward, a wounded look on his handsome face. "It's my fault, Jorja. I knew I shouldn't have come. I'm making things difficult for your husband."

He made a show of turning toward the stairs. "I'll just go get my bags and find a hotel."

"No, Cale, wait!" Jorja cried, instantly grabbing his arm, her focus entirely on him. "It has nothing to do with you! Don't be ridiculous."

She whipped her head back to Arvin, her voice now hard and accusatory. "Arvin, what is wrong with you?"

Arvin calmly raised his right hand. A clean white bandage was wrapped neatly around his palm and wrist.

"I burned my hand. I can't cook," he said, his voice flat.

It was a lie, of course. The bandage covered unblemished skin. He had wrapped it himself that morning, a prop for a scene he knew was inevitable. He was done being their chef, their servant, their solution.

The air in the grand hall grew thick with tension. The problem was, no one else in the villa knew how to cook. The maids were hired for cleaning, not for culinary arts.

Kallie scowled. "Why didn't you say so earlier? Now we're all going to starve because of you!"

Cale, ever the hero, stepped in. "It's alright. Why don't we all go out to eat? Jorja, remember that little Italian place we used to go to in high school? I wonder if it's still there."

Jorja' s face softened instantly, a nostalgic smile touching her lips. "Oh, Cale. I remember. Of course. Let's go."

And so, Arvin found himself in the back of Jorja's Rolls-Royce, a silent observer as Jorja and Cale reminisced about their golden high school days, with Kallie adding enthusiastic commentary.

"I'm so sorry you weren't there to share those memories with us, Arvin," Cale said, turning to him with a look of faux pity. "It must be hard to hear us go on."

I won't be sharing in your future either, Arvin thought, a sense of grim satisfaction settling over him.

"It's fine," he murmured, and closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

Jorja glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He looked different, she thought. Quieter, but in a sharper, more distant way. The pliable softness she had taken for granted seemed to have hardened into something she couldn't quite name. She dismissed the thought as he leaned his head against the window. He was probably just tired.

At the restaurant, Arvin excused himself to go to the restroom. He splashed cold water on his face and looked at his reflection. Dark circles hung under his eyes. He looked worn out, a stark contrast to Cale' s effortless, well-rested glow. Five years of catering to another person's every whim had taken its toll.

He took a deep breath. Just a little longer, he told himself. Freedom is almost here.

When he returned to the table, they had already ordered, a spread of dishes clearly chosen for Cale's "delicate" palate.

"The chef recommends the spicy arrabbiata," Jorja told the waiter, "but Cale can't have anything spicy. Or garlic. Or too much oil."

Arvin listened as she listed Cale's preferences, a list she knew by heart. A bitter irony twisted in his gut. After five years of marriage, she still had no idea he was allergic to shellfish.

"Do you have any dietary restrictions, sir?" the waiter asked, turning to Arvin. It was the first time Jorja had ever heard anyone ask him that question in her presence.

"No, I'm fine with anything," Arvin said quietly, unfolding his napkin.

The meal was a performance. Jorja hung on Cale' s every word, laughing at his jokes, placing the best pieces of calamari on his plate, her eyes shining with an adoration she had never shown Arvin.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the next table. An argument escalated into shouting. A man stood up, grabbing a bowl of steaming hot soup.

"You want it? Here, have it!" he yelled, flinging the bowl at his dining companion.

The woman shrieked and ducked. The bowl flew through the air, its trajectory off, heading directly for their table.

Screams filled the air. In that split second of chaos, Arvin saw Jorja move. Her reaction was pure instinct. She lunged, not towards him, her husband, but towards Cale, throwing her body in front of him as a human shield.

Arvin had no time to react. The world became a splash of searing heat and blinding pain as the scalding liquid hit his arm and chest.