I unknowingly stole the mafia don's daughter

Vera's POV The thick scent of tomato curry stew drifted through the air, thick and warm, settling onto every corner of the kitchen like a quiet companion. I wiped the edge of the pot with a kitchen towel and stepped back, scanning the table with a little smile playing on my lips. Jollof rice with fried plantains, peppered chicken, a small bowl of vegetable soup , Andrew's new favorites, arranged exactly how he liked them. Ever since her heard his boss raving about how lovely Nigerian food was, I was tasked with the mission to learn how to cook it. Using multiple YouTube videos and some advice from a Nigerian woman down the street, I managed to perfect some dishes. Everything was neat, perfect, and precise. Just the way Andrew wanted it. I glanced at the wall clock again. It was 6:52 p.m. He was late again. It had unconsciously became a routine. The cooking, the waiting, the quiet disappointment. I smoothed out my dress with my palms, the one Andrew had said looked “maternal” on me the last time I had worn it. I thought it was a compliment that I looked like a mother until he explained that I looked old. I had almost changed out of it, almost slipped into the tighter one Lara had given me for my birthday, but then I had remembered his laugh. “You in this? Maya, come on, you’ll look like a child playing dress-up.” So i stayed in my cotton floral dress. Quiet. Safe and boring. My reflection in the microwave’s stainless steel caught my attention. I barely recognized myself anymore. My hair constantly tied up in a loose bun, once creamy skin now dulled from stress, my lips chapped from biting them too often out of nervousness. I hadn’t worn makeup in months, hadn’t painted my nails in years. Because who was I trying to impress? My husband who barely looked at me. And when he did, it was usually with disapproval and disappointment. I turned off the stove and began setting the plates. Each movement was automatic and fast. A performance she had mastered. The door opened up. “Vera!" Andrew called, his voice low, tired. “In the kitchen,” I replied quickly, forcing a smile to lift my voice. He walked in, phone pressed to his ear, nodding at someone on the other end of the call. I waited, standing beside the table, my fingers lightly touching the chair he always sat in. He hung up after a minute and glanced at the food with a scrunched up nose. “All this?” “It’s your favorite,” I said, my voice too hopeful. “I thought maybe we could...” He didn’t wait for me. He just sat down, already scooping rice onto his plate. “You used too much oil,” he muttered. My chest tightened at the start of his usual criticism. “I...I followed the usual measure.” “Well, it tastes different.” He hissed out. I sat across from him silently, my appetite already gone. After ten minutes of chewing, and silence, and picking at my food passed before he said, “Saw Lara today. She looked amazing in that red jumpsuit.” I blinked slowly. “That’s nice.” “She has confidence, you know? I keep telling you, you should dress up more. Try something bold.” My jaw slightly clenched. “I don’t have anywhere to wear things like that.” “You live in this house, with your husband,” he said, leveling me with a look. “Shouldn’t that be enough of a reason?” I didn’t answer. Because the truth was, it had been a reason. For a long time. Everything I did ,the soft housewife act, the constant cooking, the endless patience and support was for him. Not because he asked, but because i thought that’s what love meant. “I saw the dress Lara got you,” he added suddenly. “Why haven’t you worn it? Or did you return it?” I swallowed. “No. It’s still in the closet.” Andrew scoffed. “Of course. Let me guess, it doesn’t ‘feel like you.’ Vera, you’re boring. That’s your problem. Always playing it safe.” My hands curled into fists under the table. “I don’t try to be boring.” “You just are.” He dropped his spoon onto the plate with a loud clatter. “God, sometimes it’s like I am living with a ghost.” The words landed like a slap, but i didn’t flinch. I was already used to his jabs. Little sharp daggers he disguised as honesty. After clearing his plate, he stood up. “I’m going to bed.” “It’s just seven...” “I’m tired.” he said dismissively. And with that, he walked out. I remained seated, staring at the empty chair across from me. The food had gone cold. The candles I had lit flickered pointlessly, casting soft shadows on the pale tablecloth I had painstakingly ironed that morning. My phone buzzed. I looked at it and saw it was a message from Lara. My best friend and old college classmate. / Hey babe. Hope you’re okay. Andrew looked stressed today. Maybe spoil him a little extra tonight?/ I stared at the screen until my eyes went misty and the words blurred. Then i got up, cleared the plates, packed the food away into containers that were placed in the refrigerator and turned off the lights. Later that night, in the dim bedroom, Andrew reached for me. I stiffened when he touched my thigh, still half-asleep but used to this. Used to giving in to him even when I had nothing left. I turned to him, trying, just trying, to meet him where he was. Maybe if I pleased him, he would be softer tomorrow. But as I leaned in for a kiss, he flinched and turned away. “Ugh,” he muttered under his breath, wiping his nose. “You smell like stew. Can’t you shower before getting in bed?” I froze, my cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He clicked his tongue. “Jesus, Maya. You walk around smelling like seasoning and still expect someone to want you.” My lips parted, but nothing came out. I just lay there, stung and silent, watching him turn to face the wall. The tears slid down my cheeks slowly this time. With no drama, no cries or sobs. Just me sitting quietly in the dark in pure shame.