It was not seasoning.
It was something he had never intended me to notice.
I forced my expression to remain unchanged.
That was the most difficult part.
This was my husband of five years—the man who once kissed my forehead before investor meetings, the man who proudly told dinner guests that his wife had built a hotel empire before turning thirty.
Now he was staring at my soup as though his entire future depended on it.
“Eat,” he said softly.
I lifted my spoon.
My hand appeared steady only because terror had frozen every muscle in my body.
For several weeks, Marcus had been asking questions that no loving husband should have asked so often.
“What happens to the hotels if something happens to you?”
“Which accounts receive the revenue from Miami?”
“Is your life-insurance policy still current?”
At first, I convinced myself he was simply being responsible.
Marriage.
