|Helena|
Later that evening, I found myself in Michael’s study, an unspoken truce settling over us as we worked. The dim light from the desk lamp cast shadows across his face, making him look both weary and resolute.
“You should eat something,” he said without looking up, his voice softer than before.
I opened my mouth to argue but stopped when he pushed a plate of food toward me.
“Don’t even start,” he warned, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “I’ve already heard every excuse in the book. Just eat.”
For once, I complied, if only to avoid another lecture. The food was warm, comforting, and reminded me of the dinners we used to share during our brief, tumultuous marriage. Back then, it was an obligation, a performance for the world. But now, it felt different—real, almost intimate.
