Page 61 of When Love Found Us
“Yep. Too quiet.” She doesn’t look at me as she says it, just keeps chopping whatever’s on the cutting board with precise, focused movements.
“You like to cook, don’t you?” I lean against the counter, watching her, letting my voice dip just a little, pushing the edges of flirtation.
She nods, her lips pressing together like she’s considering her words. “I should hate it becausehealways expected the perfect meal. It was never about what I wanted—just what he demanded.” Her hands slow, and she finally looks at me. “But while I was in the kitchen, I felt calm. Like I could forget everything else and just be . . . me.”
Something about that hits in a way I don’t like.
Because I know what it’s like to crave escape, to find it in the simplest, most mundane routines.
“I never asked,” I say, reaching for a dish towel just to give my hands something to do. “Did you work before you escaped?”
She shakes her head. “No. I had a wife-schedule—things I should be doing. Early mornings at the country club, working out because I had to look good for him. It wasn’t about health. It wasn’t about me. It was about what he needed from me. There were charities I had to attend and . . . the list of things I hated to do but had to was lengthy.”
That sounds like hell. And since she’s opening up, since she’s giving me a piece of her past, I push a little further.
“Why did you marry him?”
She exhales, the knife pausing mid-slice. “My parents.” Her voice is quieter now like the words feel too big in her mouth. “It wasn’t a choice—it was an obligation. Something I had to do for the family.”
She presses her palm flat against the counter, staring down at the vegetables like they hold an answer she doesn’t have. “That’s how they raised me. Even when I didn’t like it. I was the heiress to some stupid family whose company needed a merger—I was part of the merger.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “That’s still a thing? Marriage of convenience?”
She huffs a small laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “In my parents’ world, it is. It’s not as obvious as in other cultures, but it’s there. You’re not allowed to fall in love. You just do what you’re told, or?—”
“What would’ve happened if you hadn’t done it?” I don’t even know why I ask. Curiosity? Maybe. Or maybe I want her response to be so cold, so shallow, that it finally breaks whatever hold she has on me.
“It wasn’t an option.” She swallows, dragging her knife through the last of the vegetables. “When I was in college, I tried to imagine a different life. One where I had a job, an apartment, something that belonged to me. Every time I brought it up, they shut the conversation down.” Her voice drops lower like she’s letting me in on something no one else knows. “They reminded me I owed them everything—my education, my life. That I would do what they needed me to do. I thought it would mean working for my father’s company, but instead . . . it was marrying Winston.”
I grip the edge of the counter. “And when you said no?”
“They told me I’d regret it.”
Hate twists in my chest. “You were afraid to go against their rules?”
She nods, slowly, like she’s finally admitting something out loud that she’s never let herself say before. “Yeah. My father had a heavy hand.” She exhales through her nose, jaw tight. “Literally and metaphorically. You don’t want to cross that man. Especially if you’re his.”
I know that kind of fear. I saw it, lived it. I also know what it does to a person.
I don’t realize I’ve clenched my fists until I see her eyes drop to my hands.
I force them to relax, flexing my fingers, stepping back like distance will somehow stop the slow burn in my chest.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
I shouldn’t want to fix this.
But the need is there, buried deep, thrumming through me like a second heartbeat.
She’s safe right now. I remind myself of that. I’m making sure she’s protected. But is that enough? Should I be making sure it’s not just Winston, but her father, too? Because the more I learn about where she came from, the more I realize he’s just another version of the same monster.
Then, another thought creeps in.
Is she feeling trapped here?
I clear my throat, dragging a hand down my face before saying, “When it’s safe . . . once it’s safe for you and the baby, I promise I’ll stop watching your every move.”
Blythe finally looks at me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, her smile isn’t laced with something bittersweet. It’s small, but it’s real.
