Chapter 2
Evelyn wiped her tears and walked back to the family quarters at Evermont Base.
She hadn’t even reached for the door when Graham stepped out. His eyes flicked with surprise when he saw her. “Evelyn? Why are you back so suddenly? Why didn’t you call me to come get you?”
Her voice came out dry and trembling. “I did call… the house phone… a dozen times.”
Graham’s face went stiff, like he’d just remembered something.
“I’m sorry. It’s just–Sophie, the woman I told you about, she’s divorced and she’s run into trouble. Her parents are gone and she has nobody to lean on. She really needed me, so I—”
Evelyn felt a needle of pain jab into her chest. The hurt spread, sharp and small and constant.
Sophie needed him, so he left his wife in the middle of funeral arrangements.
Sophie needed him, so he ignored the desperate calls.
Sophie needed him, so he warmed up the last chicken pot pie her mother had left and handed it to
another woman.
He always put Sophie first. He’d never bothered to consider how much she needed him then.
“She needed you,” Evelyn cut in, her voice thin and distant. “But I needed you that day, too.”
Graham blinked, taken aback by the emptiness in her face. A strange, guilty twitch passed through
him.
He stepped forward and tried, as he used to, to pull her into his arms. “Evelyn, I know losing your mom hit you hard. Don’t be scared–I’m here now. I’ll stay with you. I’ll never leave you.”
His embrace was still broad and warm–the refuge she had once clung to–but now it felt like ice against her skin.
Evelyn stayed perfectly still in his arms, her heart emptied out.
But Graham, I don’t need you anymore, she thought.
At that moment Sophie appeared, wearing an expression of carefully measured regret.
“Oh–Evelyn, you’re back? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know about your mother. If I had, I never
would’ve asked Graham to leave at a time like this. I feel terrible. Next time, I’ll make sure to send
something appropriate.”
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Evelyn didn’t answer. She eased out of Graham’s arms and said in a low voice, “I’m tired. I’m going to rest.”
She walked past them, shut her bedroom door, and shut out the world. She didn’t come out for
dinner.
Some time later, the door opened again.
Graham came in with a bowl of chicken soup, his tone gentle but leaving no room to refuse. “Evelyn, get up and have some soup. You’re weak–you can’t skip meals.‘
She lay with her back to him and didn’t respond.
“Evelyn, come on.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his voice lowering into that unmistakable,
take–charge register he always used. “Do I have to feed you, or will you drink it yourself?”
She knew she couldn’t argue. She didn’t have the energy. Quietly she sat up and took the bowl.
The soup was golden and smelled rich–comfort in a bowl.
Once, she would have savored it, sipping slowly until the warmth chased away the ache.
Today, she could barely stomach it. After a few forced sips she set the bowl down.
Graham’s face softened–satisfied that she had at least tried.
Then panic flared through her. Her heart raced, her breath came short, and red, itchy welts began to rise across her neck and arms. They burned and stung.
Graham noticed at once and frowned. “Evelyn, what’s wrong?”
Evelyn fought the discomfort and looked at the soup. Her voice shook. “What… did you put in this?”
Outside, Sophie’s delighted voice sounded like a knife. “Graham, did you put truffle oil in this? It smells amazing! I can’t believe you remembered it’s my favorite after all these years!”
Evelyn’s stomach dropped. Cold poured through her.
She was severely allergic to truffle oil–just a touch could leave her covered in rashes and gasping for air.
For years Graham had been careful, avoiding it whether they ate out or at home; their kitchen had never even contained truffle oil.
But because Sophie liked it, he had apparently forgotten–entirely–about her allergy. And now
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he had brought that soup to her.
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