Seduction of the Mind

Domestic Fault Lines

The house was too quiet. It always was at this hour—late evening when the girls scattered like startled birds and Helena vanished into some orbit that no longer intersected his. The silence pressed on him as he peeled off his jacket and hung it on the chair in the kitchen, rolling his sleeves like a man preparing for work that mattered.

Tonight, he wasn’t going to eat something thawed and soulless. Not another microwaved tray that tasted like compromise. Tonight, he’d cook. He needed the ritual, the smell, the distraction from everything clawing at the edges of his mind.

The kitchen glowed under recessed lights, sterile and immaculate in a way that made it feel unlived in. He opened the fridge, pulled out a pair of ribeye steaks he’d bought this afternoon, their marbled flesh cold and perfect. He seasoned them with salt and pepper, pressing the grains into the meat with deliberate fingers, like tamping down thoughts that wouldn’t stay quiet.

A skillet heated on the stove until it shimmered. The hiss of butter hit metal, sharp and satisfying. Ethan dropped the first steak in and listened as it seared, a sound like applause in a room too empty.

He poured himself a glass of wine—a dark Shiraz he’d been saving for a dinner that never happened—and leaned against the counter while the aroma curled through the air. For the first time all week, he felt something close to control.

The oven ticked softly, warming for the potatoes he’d diced and tossed with rosemary and oil. He told himself this was normal. A man cooking in his own kitchen. Normal. Except it wasn’t—not for him.

The girls used to watch him when they were little, giggling as he fumbled with pancake batter on Sunday mornings. Now they barely looked up from their screens long enough to mutter hello, let alone sit at the table. And Helena—Helena hadn’t asked him what he wanted for dinner in… how long? A year? Two?

He was setting the second steak in the skillet when footsteps thudded softly down the stairs. He didn’t turn. Not yet.

“Well,” came her voice, smooth as lacquer but edged with something sharp. “This is… unexpected.”

Ethan pivoted slowly. Helena stood framed in the doorway like an editorial spread for casual luxury: black leggings hugging her legs, a pale gray cropped hoodie baring a sliver of toned stomach. Her hair was piled in a messy bun that probably took twenty minutes to perfect. A gym bag hung from her shoulder, the strap digging into soft fabric.

Fresh makeup glowed faintly on her skin, lips glossed in a pink that whispered effort, not accident. And then there was the scent—light but expensive, notes of jasmine and amber twining through the warm air of the kitchen. Not her usual. Not for yoga.

“I thought you forgot where the stove was,” she said, eyes sweeping the counter where herbs, oil, and the deep-red Shiraz formed a still life of intent.

“I remember things,” Ethan replied, turning the steak with tongs. The crust crackled, releasing a buttery hiss.

Helena stepped inside, dropping her gym bag on a chair. “Girls are out,” she said casually, twisting the cap off a bottle of sparkling water she’d snagged from the fridge. “No one left to cook for you.”

“Maybe,” he said, sliding the skillet off the heat to let the meat rest. “Or maybe I just decided to cook for myself.”

She laughed—a short, brittle sound that ricocheted off tile. “Domestic fantasy? Should I be jealous of the cow?”

He smiled without looking at her, carving the words clean. “The cow’s more consistent.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

Helena took a long sip from the bottle, throat working, eyes never leaving his profile. “You’ve had a day, I see,” she said finally. “What happened? Another patient crying about their childhood trauma?”

“Something like that.” Ethan set the steak on a wooden board, covering it loosely with foil. “But you’re not here to ask about my day.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Pattern recognition,” he said dryly.

She tilted her head, lips curving in a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “God, you love your theories.”

“I do,” he said, pouring another inch of wine into his glass. “They keep me sane.”

He leaned on the counter now, glass cradled in one hand, gaze steady. “Ran into Denis this week.”

The name landed like a thrown stone. Helena froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for him to clock it—before pivoting smoothly, bottle dangling from her fingers.

“Oh?” she said, tone bright and brittle, like cellophane over something rotting. “How is he?”

“Alive,” Ethan said. “Chatty. Sent his regards.”

Something flickered across her face—confusion, maybe irritation—before the smile snapped back in place. “That’s nice of him.”

“Is it?” Ethan sipped, eyes never leaving hers. “Funny thing, though. He still wears that godawful cologne. Hard to miss.”

Helena’s throat moved once. “You’re fishing,” she said lightly.

“Am I?” His voice softened, dangerous now. “I read people for a living, Helena. It’s how I pay for this house, your car, those weekends away with… whoever.”

Color flushed up her neck like a creeping tide. “You think I’m—” She stopped, laugh slicing through the air. “Wow. Impressive leap, even for you.”

“Not a leap,” Ethan said calmly, setting his glass down with surgical precision. “Observation. You’re out before sunrise some days. Back late, glowing like a chandelier. And now Denis, conveniently divorced—”

“Stop.” The word cracked, sharp and raw. “Don’t you dare paint me like some—some woman with no self-respect.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Ethan murmured.

Her jaw clenched so hard he heard the faint click of teeth. “You know what? After this little performance, I’m not going anywhere tonight.” She yanked the zipper of her hoodie halfway down before letting it fall, a gesture full of defiance. “Not to yoga. Not to drinks. Nowhere.”

“Tragic,” he said mildly. “Denis will have to meditate alone.”

Helena’s eyes flared, blue gone to frost. “You’re an ass, Ethan.”

“And you’re predictable.”

That broke her. “Predictable?” Her voice pitched higher, brittle as glass. “I hold this family together while you sit in your little office playing God with other people’s secrets—and you dare call me predictable?”

“Call it what you like,” he said softly. “But I see patterns, Helena. It’s what I do.”

Her breath came hard now, chest rising and falling under the cropped hoodie. For a moment, he thought she might throw the bottle in her hand. Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed out, gym bag abandoned, perfume trailing like a weapon.

A door slammed upstairs, rattling the chandelier in the hall.

Ethan stood there, the steak cooling under its foil, the potatoes ticking softly in the oven, the wine sliding dark down the curve of his glass.

He could end this. He could scorch the earth, sign the papers, and walk away clean—except nothing about Helena came cheap. Divorce would strip him raw: the house, the money, maybe even the girls if her lawyer sharpened the knife just right.

She’d gut him with a smile.

So he’d stay. For now. Not out of love. Out of strategy.

Ethan carved into the steak, the blade sinking with obscene ease. Juice bled onto the plate like a wound, staining the pale china red. He chewed without tasting, the meat rich and soft, his mind elsewhere—on a folder in his briefcase thick with violence, on a patient whose name curled through his head like smoke.

Upstairs, Helena paced, her steps uneven, angry. He could hear the muted thud of her voice as she spoke into her phone behind a closed door.

The house didn’t feel hollow anymore. It felt like a minefield. And Ethan, for the first time in a long time, wasn’t sure he cared if it blew.