Chapter 3: The Taste of Regret

In the kitchen, I tried to find out about the past five years.

Five years ago—

I married Blake despite my family’s objections.

After marriage, to give me a better life, Blake quit his job and started his own business.

My dad, though he looked down on this blue-collar son-in-law, still secretly supported him quite a bit in the early days.

Blake really was ambitious.

In five years, he went from a broke mechanic to a rising star in Silver Hollow.

According to Aunt Linda,

Blake’s assets and status now far surpassed my dad’s.

“But…”

Aunt Linda helped me stir the chicken soup, hesitating. “Miss, you and that Tyler, haven’t broken up yet?”

“Tyler?”

I poked at the food in the pot, asking casually, “Who’s that?”

Aunt Linda was clearly stunned too. “Your… boyfriend.”

I nearly choked on my saliva.

We exchanged a glance.

“I cheated?”

Aunt Linda nodded in pain and despair.

“The other man is also a mechanic. No matter what, you insisted on divorcing, and…”

Before she finished—

There were footsteps outside the door.

Aunt Linda instantly stopped talking.

I turned around and saw the Blake from five years later.

Dress pants hugged his long legs, shirt cuffs neatly buttoned, mature and self-assured.

He was a bit thinner.

His features looked sharper.

Although I already knew the man before me was my legal husband,

I still blushed a little at how handsome he was.

“You’re… back.”

“Yeah.”

So cold.

But thinking about it, I did cheat on him—of course he wouldn’t be nice to me.

Taking a deep breath, I forced a smile, bracing myself to clean up my five-years-later self’s mess.

“You must be tired? Go wait outside, dinner will be ready soon.”

Blake glanced at the apron loosely tied over my slightly rounded belly.

His tone was indifferent.

“No appetite.”

With that—

He turned on the kitchen’s exhaust fan.

Turned to leave.

“Blake.”

I walked up with the spatula, unable to resist acting cute. “Dinner’s almost ready, all your favorite dishes. Just try it, okay?”

“Not hungry.”

Blake turned and left.

Aunt Linda asked cautiously, “Miss, should we still make the food?”

I sighed. “Let’s make it.”

I tried to shake off the awkwardness, rolling up my sleeves and chopping veggies like my dignity depended on it. The kitchen filled with the rich scent of simmering soup and pan-fried onions, but I couldn’t keep my mind from spinning—who was this version of me? And how had I managed to make such a mess of something that was once so simple?

Dinner was ready.

Four dishes and a soup, all home-cooked.

Blake, who claimed he wasn’t hungry, still sat at the dining table.

I thought there was hope, so I quickly picked up a shrimp and put it in his bowl.

“Miss,” Aunt Linda whispered, “he’s allergic to shrimp.”

Crap.

I immediately took it back.

Replaced it with a piece of pot roast.

But Blake still wouldn’t touch his fork. He leaned back slightly, watching me with a leisurely air.

“Go on. What’d you do to dinner this time, Rachel? Poison or just the usual disaster?”

I froze. “I didn’t…”

Blake’s sarcastic words cut me off. “You’ve cooked twice this year. Once you put laxatives in the food, once sleeping pills. Just because I wouldn’t agree to a divorce. Rachel, what did you use this time?”

I stared at him in shock.

There was no way to explain.

“I really didn’t put anything.”

To prove it, I hurriedly picked up a piece of meat and stuffed it into my mouth.

“Really not poisoned…”

“Hey—”

Blake’s face darkened, and he reached out to dig in my mouth.

He said irritably, “Can’t I eat it? If it’s poisoned, I’ll take it. You don’t have to go this far.”

I pushed him away and swallowed the meat whole.

“Really not poisoned, just… tastes a bit bad.”

A strong meaty taste.

Blake looked at me for a while.

Then sat back down.

I don’t know if it was my imagination, but it seemed like he even curled his lips a little.

Blake finally started eating.

I carefully watched his expression.

Sure enough—

The moment he tasted the food, even someone as good at controlling his expression as Blake couldn’t help but frown.

But he was used to hardship.

Even though it tasted bad, he almost finished it all.

The clatter of forks and the smell of overcooked onions hung in the air, thick as the tension between us.

Seeing him in a good mood, I seized the chance. “Blake, tonight, I want to talk to you.”

Blake’s hand holding the fork stiffened.

“No time.”

His expression turned cold again.

He even put the fork down heavily. “Working late tonight. Whatever it is, talk later.”

The air felt thick, the house echoing with quiet tension. The only sound was the tick of the wall clock above the dining table, the kind that always seemed a little too loud in a silent room. I forced a smile and busied myself stacking plates, trying not to dwell on the chill in his eyes.