Chapter 2

Alaric came home the following morning carrying a white bakery box.

He smelled of cold air, cedar cologne, and a perfume that did not belong to me.

“Sienna, I’m sorry.”

He sat beside me and reached for my shoulder as though one apology could erase an empty chair and seven unanswered hours.

“Freya’s tire blew out where there was almost no cell service,” he explained. “By the time the repair shop opened, I was exhausted, and my phone was dead.”

“You could have borrowed hers.”

He hesitated.

“She was already upset. I didn’t want to make everything worse.”

He opened the bakery box and pushed it toward me.

Inside was a mango mille-crepe cake.

“Freya recommended this place,” he said. “She said this cake always makes her feel better, so I thought it might improve your mood too.”

I stared at him.

During the first year of our marriage, I had eaten a mango dessert and suffered an allergic reaction severe enough to send me to the emergency room.

Alaric had spent that night beside my hospital bed, frightened and apologetic.

For years afterward, he checked menus before I ordered anything.

Now another woman’s recommendation mattered more than something he had once been terrified of forgetting.

“I’m allergic to mangoes.”

The smile disappeared from his face.

For a moment, recognition flickered in his eyes.

Then embarrassment hardened into irritation.

“I forgot,” he said. “You haven’t mentioned it in years.”

“I shouldn’t have to remind my husband why I went to the hospital.”

“It was a mistake, Sienna. I stood in line for forty minutes to buy this.”

“For me or because Freya recommended it?”

His jaw tightened.

Before he could answer, his phone rang.

Freya’s name appeared on the screen.

Alaric answered immediately.

Her sobs carried clearly across the room.

“My supervisor rejected my proposal in front of the whole team,” she said. “He told me I might not pass probation. Alaric, I don’t know what to do.”

The irritation in Alaric’s face vanished the moment he heard her cry.

“Stay where you are,” he said. “I’m coming.”

He ended the call and reached for his keys.

“She’s frightened she’ll lose her job.”

“I recommended her for that job.”

“Then you should understand why she needs help.”

“I understand that she has a supervisor.”

Alaric frowned as though I were being deliberately cruel.

“She doesn’t have anyone else, Sienna.”

He left before I could answer.

The front door closed, leaving the open cake box on the coffee table.

I photographed it and forwarded the image, Freya’s posts, and Alaric’s messages to Victoria.

Then I opened the email I had been avoiding for three months.

Before stepping away from screenwriting to support Alaric’s company, I had worked with producer Mara Bennett on two successful adaptations.

She was assembling a new writers’ room in San Francisco and had offered me a six-week contract, with the possibility of extending it if the work went well.

Her final message was simple.

“We begin Monday. If you want the seat, I need your answer by noon.”

In the past, I had always found a reason to say no.

Alaric’s schedule was too demanding.

The house needed managing.

His company needed my contacts and revisions whenever a proposal failed.

This time, I placed my hands on the keyboard.

“Thank you for the opportunity. I accept.”