Soon, the table was filled with a mountain of food. Stella’s attention was drawn to the commotion, and she turned to see the workers leaving the room, surprised by the sight. Weston, who typically didn’t like having too many people around, had ordered them to leave before calling Stella over.
She rose obediently, walking toward the table. Her eyes brightened just slightly as she took in the elaborate spread before her.
“What is all this?” she asked, her voice soft.
Weston guided her to sit, taking the seat across from her. “Pick what you like,” he said, handing her a plate and a set of chopsticks.
The table was covered with a variety of dishes—everything meticulously prepared by top chefs. Stella paused, her gaze drifting over the spread.
“It’s just dinner. Did you really need to make it so grand?” she remarked, almost amused.
“At least I’ll know what you like to eat,” Weston replied, his tone logical, but distant.
Stella’s hand hovered over the chair, her body frozen in thought. As her gaze met his, something shifted within her. A fleeting smile tugged at her lips, though she wasn’t sure if it was sarcastic or nostalgic. A memory rose to the surface: before, she would have gone to great lengths to understand Weston’s likes and dislikes, hoping to please him. Now, the tables had turned.
For someone like Weston, who never cooked for her, asking a chef to prepare a meal was almost an act of generosity. But to Stella, it felt less like kindness and more like mockery. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She sat down quietly and chose a few light-flavored dishes, her movements calm but deliberate.
Weston watched her without a word. His eyes narrowed as he saw her pick light foods. “I remember you used to love spicy dishes,” he said, his tone almost accusatory.
Although they had been estranged for some time, he knew her well enough—after all, they had lived together for years. Stella froze at his words, but said nothing. Weston, however, wasn’t done. “When did your taste change?”
She didn’t respond immediately, but when the silence stretched too long, she answered, “It never did.”
“Then why aren’t you eating them?” His voice was tinged with frustration.
A bitter smile curled on her lips. “I don’t feel well. I can’t eat them.” The words were calm, but the weight of them hung in the air.
Weston’s mind raced. Was it the miscarriage that had affected her, or perhaps the trauma of falling from the rooftop that day? He rubbed his forehead in frustration, closing his eyes for a moment, as though trying to ward off the discomfort gnawing at him.
After a long silence, his voice emerged hoarse. “What can I do to make you forget the past?”
Stella shook her head slowly, the calmness in her voice a stark contrast to the heaviness of her words. “I’ll never forget that I lost a life.”
Her eyes met his, and in that instant, Weston saw that the tenderness he once knew had faded completely. No matter what he did, she would never forget. The scars he had left on her soul were permanent.
His gaze darkened, resignation creeping into his posture. With a deep sigh, he spoke, the words heavy with the weight of his failure. “Eat.”
Stella picked up her chopsticks, reaching for the spicy dishes on the table. Weston’s eyes flicked to her with concern, noticing her sudden change in behavior.
“Enough,” he said sharply. “What are you doing?”
She paused, her smile returning, though it was colder this time. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had my favorite dish. I want to indulge.”
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