Page 96 of Brutal Crown

He chuckles. “Stop being sarcastic.”

“I’m not being sarcastic.”

“You sound like it.”

I sip the wine to hide my smile. “So you don’t believe I think this was a kind gesture?”

He leans back in his chair, tipping the glass toward his lips. “It’s the way you said it.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out if this is a date or a bribe for something else.”

“You just proved me right.”

We both laugh.

It’s easy, for a second. The way it used to be, before the pregnancy, before the engagement. He watches me with that old sparkle in his eyes, the one that used to make me feel like I was the only person in the room. I hate how much I still recognize it.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says after a moment. “More than usual. I see you every day, but we barely even talk to each other, like actually engage in a proper conversation.”

“I’ve been so… tired, I guess. If I knew being rich was this stressful, I wouldn’t have prayed to be a billionaire as a child.”

We both laugh again, but then his laughter dies down as a soft look takes over his features.

“I miss hearing your laugh.”

That… softens something in my chest. I don’t answer right away, and he doesn’t say anything else. He reaches for the dishes between us—grilled vegetables, roasted chicken, warm bread—and begins to serve me.

“You’re cutting the bread wrong,” I murmur.

He snorts. “It’s bread. It’s not supposed to be perfect. Drizzle some sauce over it, and it looks just delicious.”

“Dishing food is a sacred art.”

“Food still tastes the same no matter how it’s served,” he argues back.

I miss how we used to argue about the most mundane things.

“If you had to choose between two plates of the same meal—one all fancy and perfectly plated, the other just thrown together—what would you go for?”

“The latter,” he says without missing a beat.

I laugh. “That’s such a bald-faced lie, and you know it.”

“Fine, you’re right,” he chuckles. “But it’s not my fault I never learned how to do anything related to the kitchen… except eat.”

His eyes twinkle when he looks up at me. “Maybe you could teach me sometime… how to be a better server, chef, how to please you…”

The air shifts. It gets warmer. Heavier.

Marco leans in, his elbows on the table, his voice quieter. “Do you ever think about how easy it was before?”

“Nothing is easy in this house.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me like he’s trying to memorize something. Or maybe guess what I’m hiding behind my smile.