Checking in with her feels as natural as breathing.
Though I may have come off as overbearing, I don’t feel the least bit bad about it. I care about her. And right now, while she’s exhausted and suffering because of what my son did to her, I’m going to keep tabs and ensure she’s okay.
It’s my responsibility to lighten her load, even if it’s only a little. At least that’s what I tell myself as I plate her food and add extra butter to the mound of rice.
“Here we are,” I announce, presenting her with the simple meal I’ve put together.
I proffer a small bowl of miso soup sans green onions and seaweed, along with a plate of white rice with a thick pat of butter melting into all the crevices. On the side are fresh baby cucumbers, sliced and salted with a small ramekin of a cream cheese-based dipping sauce.
She stares at the plate for several seconds before looking up andholding my gaze. “Thank you,” she finally says with a mix of gratitude and maybe exasperation.
“Eat up,” I tell her, patting the counter. “I need to check in with my assistant, so I figured I’d do that in the living room.”
With a nod, she reaches for the saltshaker I placed beside her fork and napkin.
I excuse myself and head for the couch.
My phone screen is blank. No messages from Quinn. That’s to be expected. This is my emergency phone; it’s rare he contacts me on it unless it’s truly urgent. My work cell stays at the paddock each night. Stepping away from it helps me maintain some semblance of work-life balance.
I don’t have any actual work to do, but I want to give Evangeline a chance to eat without an audience.
Mindlessly, I scroll through social media.
The scrolling quickly morphs into another action, though, and without conscious thought, I find myself typingatizketatasketinto the search bar of Instagram.
Evangeline’s face pops up immediately. I click through to the profile, whistling quietly at the number of followers. Damn. More than seventeen thousand. At the top of the feed is a replay of the live stream I witnessed in real time.
I turn the volume all the way down so I don’t give away what I’m really doing on the other side of the partition that separates the kitchenette from the living space of her suite. Even without sound, I find myself transfixed by the woman on my screen.
After I watch her for a few minutes, I click back to her profile and scroll down to see previous posts. There are hundreds of videos of Evangeline smiling, wearing different bold, fun, animal-print ensembles, always with a bright red or hot pink lipstick.
I can’t help but home in on the curve of the cupid’s bow of her upper lip. The bright color makes it impossible not to notice.
The brand of her business is bold and eclectic. Like an extension of who she is. It’s brilliant marketing.
But when I mentally compare these smiling pictures to the exhausted woman slumped over the counter now, an ache forms behind my sternum. Knowing how much these live streams take out of her makes the entire Luca situation even more unjust.
Frustrated, I scroll farther. Clearly being too careless, I accidentally tap a photo twice, and a little red heart illuminates.
Shit, shit, shit.
I quickly find the post I accidentally liked and double click, removing the evidence that I was here.
Annoyed with myself, I stash my phone away. Then I stand and make my way back to the kitchen area, stepping heavily so she knows I’m coming.
As I round the corner, Evangeline is pushing her plate aside.
A glance reveals that she ate most of the meal.
Relief swamps me, followed by a swell of pride.
“How was it?” I can’t help but ask. I’m not after praise—the dish was simple and low effort anyway—but I don’t want to leave yet, so apparently, I’m grasping at straws and blurting out words I hope will keep her talking.
“Everything was really good.” Her smile is soft and genuine. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Thank you.”
“How’s your headache?”
She grimaces, shaking her head. “I’ll probably have it all night.”
