Chapter 3
“Sophia, when did you become so selfish?” Brandon’s voice was sharp, slicing through
the silence.
“You used to peel them for me, too.”
Wordlessly, I took a slow sip of my coffee, meeting his gaze with steady calm.
He stopped mid–motion, dropping a half–peeled shrimp onto his plate. His brows
furrowed in irritation.
“Are you seriously not going to answer me? Not even going to help peel the shrimp? You’d have a whole bowl ready for me by now, before.”
Before.
Right. Before. Brandon always claimed his hands were clumsy, that peeling shrimp always scratched him. He’d say that as a designer, his hands were his most precious tools, they couldn’t be risked.
So every single time we had shrimp, I’d wear gloves, enduring the burn if chili oil got through the gloves, peeling them one by one for him.
Watching him enjoy it used to make me feel… content. Even happy.
Later, when my fingers became red, swollen, and raw from the repeated exposure, he’d just murmur, “Don’t bother next time,” and then the next time, he’d still wait for me to
serve him.
“Brandon,” I set my teacup down, my eyes lingering on his long, clean, perfectly manicured hands. “Your hands really are precious.”
He mistook it for a compliment, a smug sound escaping him. “Of course they are. These hands create designs,”
“Yes. The hands that create.” My laugh was cold, without humor. “Funny, I didn’t hear about them being ‘precious‘ the other night when you were in the hallway fixing Fiona’s shoe cabinet.”
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“That… that was different,” he sputtered, his confidence faltering. “Fiona’s a woman, her cabinet was broken and she couldn’t move it. I just happened to see, I couldn’t just stand there. It was just a neighborly gesture.”
“A neighborly gesture?” I scoffed. “You looked pretty prepared. Had your whole toolkit with you.‘
I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping to a low, deliberate pitch. “Brandon, you used to wait for me to climb the ladder and change a lightbulb, claiming you had a fear of heights. So what happened?
Did
your acrophobia miraculously vanish when it came to helping the neighbor? “Or is it that your hands are only ‘precious‘ for the neighbor, but at home, they’re useless?”
Brandon’s face flushed a deep red. “Do you have to twist everything? What’s wrong with helping a neighbor? Look at you now, where’s the gentle, considerate woman I married?”
“Gentle? Considerate?”
I set my chopsticks down and wiped my mouth with a napkin.
“Brandon, my gentleness was for my husband. Not for a lord who needs waiting on.” I stood up, gathering my dishes.
“And since you’re so handy, from now on, if anything breaks in this house, don’t expect me to call a repairman. We’ll save the money. You, our very helpful neighbor, can fix it yourself.”
I turned and walked toward the kitchen, my movements efficient and unhesitating.
Brandon remained seated, staring at my retreating back. It was likely the first time he truly felt it, that Sophia who used to smile and agree with everything he said was gone.
Gone for good.
And maybe that was fine.
After all, everyone has a moment when they finally see things clearly.
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Of course, Brandon didn’t see this as a reason for self–reflection. In his mind, I was just being moody. I’d get over it in a few days.
He carried on as usual.
Every morning when he left, he’d make a point of going to the passenger side to adjust the cushion. I never understood why.
Until one day, my fingers brushed against something in the crevice of the passenger seat. I pulled it out.
A lipstick. Not mine.
The shade was a garish, bright color, with a sickly–sweet peach scent. Nothing like the matte, classic reds I wore.
That evening, when Brandon came home, I placed the lipstick on the coffee table.
“Whose is this?”
