Page 40

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in.
And then, in a voice, rough and low, he speaks: “You shouldn’t have done that.”
For a split second, his eyes flick from the stove to the stack of pancakes on the table, and then to me, still standing there barefoot, in the oversized robe, my cheeks faintly flushed, with a spatula still in hand.
His brows lift slightly, just a flicker of surprise, before he straightens his shoulders.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he repeats.
I swallow, then let out a soft, careful laugh.
“I wanted to. It is my way of saying thank you for accepting my offer,” I say, smiling lightly. “Oh, and you don’t have to worry about food poisoning; I learned how to cook from my mom growing up.”
Something flickers across his face — a faint narrowing of his eyes, like I’ve just said something truly unexpected.
“Your mother…” he repeats slowly, stepping farther into the kitchen, “Lola Delgado… cooks? For Thiago?”
The surprise in his voice is genuine, not mocking, and for some reason, it makes me smile wider.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “She always has. Even with all the help in the house, she says it grounds her. She especially likes making breakfast — she calls it her little ritual for dad.”
Zasha exhales faintly, shaking his head like he can’t quite picture it.
His hands rest loosely on his hips, his broad frame taking up the doorway effortlessly.
“Well, we are not your mom and dad. You don’t have to bother yourself,” he murmurs, his tone softer but still guarded. “If you want, you can hire a cook. Any cook you like. Don’t… don’t feel like you are obligated to do this.”
Something in my chest squeezes unexpectedly.
I know he’s trying — in his own blunt, careful way — to tell me I’m not expected to play the perfect wife, not expected to serve or please him. But it also reminds me, painfully, of the line he’s determined to hold between us.
First, he puts me in a different room, now he is kicking against us eating together. It is beginning to feel as if getting him to marry me was actually the easy part in my plan.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and lift my chin slightly, offering him another small smile.
“I understand,” I say quietly. “After all… this is just an arrangement of convenience.”
Zasha’s gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering in his pewter eyes. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he lets the conversation drop.
We move around each other carefully, like two people trying to avoid touching a bruise.
I set out the plates. He pulls down two mugs from the cabinet.
Neither of us says much as we settle at the counter, and although we are side by side, we are also worlds apart.
As I pour syrup over my pancakes, I feel his quiet presence beside me like a weight — not heavy, exactly, but solid and undeniable.
I sneak a glance at him, watching the way his strong hands move, the precise cut of his jaw, the way his mouth sets into that familiar hard line.
He’s gorgeous, in a fierce, untouchable way. And yet, here we are, eating pancakes like two strangers forced into the same room.
I want to reach across the space between us, to ask him something real, something meaningful — but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I murmur, “I hope they’re not too sweet. My mom always said I had a heavy hand with the sugar.”
Zasha gives a small, distracted grunt, cutting into his food with military efficiency.
For a moment, we eat in silence, the only sounds are the quiet clinking of silverware and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
I let out a slow breath.