Chapter 1

When I pushed open the kitchen door, Julian was standing right behind another woman, guiding her hand as she sprinkled salt into a pot.

They were standing very close.

Her back was pressed almost flush against his chest, and my husband had his head down, a rare look of long-lost patience on his face.

"Slow down," he said. "This sauce shouldn't be too salty."

That was his mother’s meat sauce recipe.

In our five years of marriage, I had begged him to teach me countless times.

At first, he said he’d do it when he had time. Later, it became "the steps are too complicated." Eventually, whenever I brought it up, he would just smile, pinch my cheek, and say that some flavors are best left in memory.

And yet right now, steam was rising from the red enamel pot on the stove, filling the entire kitchen with the scent of fresh basil and tomatoes.

A woman I had never seen before was tied into my apron, and Julian was patiently teaching her the very thing I had waited five years for.

He noticed me first.

The hand resting on her wrist dropped instantly.

"Maren? Why are you back so early today?"

His tone made it sound as if I wasn't supposed to show up in my own home at this hour.

The woman turned around, revealing a slightly flushed face.

She was pretty, but not in an aggressive way. Her brown curly hair was loosely pinned behind her head, a fleck of flour dusted on the tip of her nose. She looked relaxed and natural, as if she were the one who belonged in this kitchen.

"You must be Maren." She smiled and untied the apron. "I'm Ivy."

She knew about me. But I only found out she existed at this exact moment.

Julian walked over to take my bag, leaning down to kiss my forehead just like he always did.

I caught the faint trace of perfume on his shirt, subtle, mingled with the scent of onions and tomatoes.

"A friend from my cooking class," he explained. "The instructor canceled last minute, so I said we could keep practicing at our place."

"Practicing your mother’s meat sauce?"

My voice was calmer than I expected.

The smile on Julian’s face faded a little. "It's just dinner. Don't make such a big deal out of it."

Ivy glanced between the two of us and picked up her coat. "I think I should head out."

"No need." Julian spoke almost immediately. "The sauce is almost done."

In that moment, something inside my chest sank quietly.

He didn't ask if I minded. He didn't step toward me either.

He simply walked back to the stove and turned down the heat for her, smooth and practiced, as if they had cooked together dozens of times before.

During dinner, Julian and Ivy chatted about funny moments from their cooking class.

I sat across from them, listening to them laugh over inside jokes I had no context for.

Ivy tried to explain things to me occasionally, but the more she explained, the more I felt like an intruder who had accidentally crashed someone else's party.

I took a bite of the meat sauce.

It tasted wonderful.

So it wasn't that the steps were too complicated, nor was it that he couldn't bear to touch the memories his mother left behind.

He just didn't want to share them with me.

After Ivy left, Julian cleared the table and said, "She just moved here recently and doesn't have many friends. You made things really awkward for her earlier."

I watched him carefully place the wine glass she had used into the sink.

"I came back to my own house and found a strange woman wearing my apron, making a dish my husband refused to teach me. Julian, I was the one who was made awkward."

He set the plate down with a heavy clatter.

"So after getting married, I'm not even allowed to have female friends?"

That familiar tone of exhaustion pressed down on me, making it seem as though I wasn't hurt, just throwing a baseless tantrum.

Every word I had prepared suddenly felt ridiculous.

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you meant." He wiped his hands, avoiding my eyes. "Did you really have to make a meal look this ugly?"

The aroma of the meat sauce still lingered in the kitchen.

I used to think that when Julian was finally willing to make this dish, it would be a night that belonged to us.

Maybe there would be candles, maybe red wine. Maybe he would talk about his mother, and I would listen quietly.

Now, all of it had happened.

Except the person standing beside him wasn't me.

That night, Julian fell asleep quickly. I lay beside him, staring up at the dark ceiling, realizing clearly for the very first time,

Some betrayals don't start with a kiss.

They start when your husband hands something he couldn't bear to give you to another woman without a second thought.