Chapter 121

Vivian's heart churned with conflicting emotions—a turbulent storm of memories and present realities. Had these apologies come earlier, she might have dived headfirst back into their broken marriage without hesitation. But that ship had sailed. She'd rebuilt her walls, fortified her heart. Turning back wasn't an option anymore.

She dipped her chin, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's alright. That's all in the past now. I forgive you."

The past couldn't be rewritten, no matter how much one dwelled on it. His belated apology served as final punctuation to their story. Even goodbyes deserved grace. Watching him retreat, she felt no need to cling to bitterness.

As she spoke, she noticed Adrian's fingers still lingering on her ankle and quickly pulled away.

Adrian recognized the quiet rejection. With his apology given and her forgiveness granted, he believed they'd reached closure. A weight lifted from his shoulders as he stood, casually rolling up his sleeves. "I'll whip up some pasta. You just relax."

Before Vivian could respond, Adrian had already disappeared into the kitchen, the sounds of clattering pots and running water filling the space.

Vivian arched an eyebrow, muttering under her breath, "Since when does he cook?" The image of Adrian Blackwood—ruthless business magnate—standing at a stove seemed utterly incongruous to her.

From the kitchen doorway, Adrian shot her a fleeting glance before returning to his task. He scrubbed the pot with surprising efficiency, set water boiling, and began preparing the meal with practiced movements that betrayed hidden culinary skills.

In Vivian's traditional worldview, men cooking somehow diminished their masculinity. Yet Adrian shattered that stereotype effortlessly. With his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the strong lines of his collarbones, his forearms flexing as he worked—veins tracing paths down to his capable hands—he moved through the kitchen with unexpected grace.

There was something mesmerizing about his movements, an unconscious sensuality that held her gaze. Watching him navigate the domestic space became an unexpected pleasure, a visual indulgence that fed something deeper than hunger.

Soon, two steaming plates of spaghetti appeared on the dining table. "Why are you still sitting there? Wash up and let's eat," Adrian called, snapping her from her trance.

"Oh." Vivian blinked, suddenly aware she was already moving toward the sink. The domesticity of the moment felt bittersweet—a glimpse of married life they'd never truly had, now on the brink of ending.

Returning to the table, she faced the intimate setup—the small square surface left no room for emotional distance. After a brief hesitation, she chose the chair directly opposite Adrian, their knees almost touching beneath the table.

The plates held perfectly arranged spaghetti, each topped with a flawlessly cooked egg and generous sauce. Vivian's portion, she noticed, had an extra swirl of her favorite sauce—a silent testament to Adrian's attention to her preferences.

Outwardly composed, Vivian's emotions raged like the gathering storm outside. The food became her sole anchor. The rich, savory pasta proved a welcome distraction, and she ate quickly, her hunger overriding other sensations.

Adrian's eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction as he noted her clean plate. "So," he asked, lips quirking, "can I cook or what?"