Page 8 of The Wright Man

I pulled in a breath, deeper this time. Rolled my shoulders back and let it out slowly, like I could exhale all of the fury and heartbreak and tired right out of my body.

"I'm saying... that I want to talk," I said, quieter now. "It's not everything. But it's something."

The room went still.

The only sounds were the soft bubbling of the gravy and the distant chirp of a morning dove outside the kitchen window.

He didn't move. Just stared at me over the rim of his coffee mug with an expression I couldn't name anymore. Disappointment? Disdain? Boredom?

I couldn't tell where his silence ended and my hope began.

So I stood there. Hair in a scarf, heart in my hands.

Waiting.

And he just looked at me like I was speaking a language he didn't feel like learning.

"I don't have time," he said flatly, setting his now-empty coffee mug down with a soft clink. "Got a client coming in to see about a custom commission."

Right. Work.

As always. Even on Sunday.

Gavin was a jewelry broker—or at least, that's what his Instagram bio said. He and his best friend Boyd dropped out of college sophomore year to "build an empire," and somehow Boyd's daddy dying turned them into overnight CEOs of the Anderson family jewelry business. Now they posted iPhone pics of diamond grills and engagement rings with captions like Legacy Loading ?? and When You're Him AND His Jeweler ??. Meanwhile, the board that actually ran the business let them play pretend in the front office like two toddlers in a toy Bentley.

He'd been "working on Sundays" for six months straight.

I didn't say anything at first. Just nodded. Swallowed around the tight little lump forming in my throat.

"Oh... okay," I said, the disappointment settling into my chest like smoke. "Well, at least take some with you." I grabbed a container from the cabinet and started reaching for one of the biscuits, already planning out how to layer the gravy on the bottom so it didn't make everything soggy. "It'll still be good later—"

"I'm good," he cut in. Clipped. Cold.

I paused. "But I made so much... just take some—"

"You're hanging out with your sisters today, right? Take it to your little salon or whatever," he muttered.

The words sliced clean through me. Little salon. Like it was a lemonade stand. Like it wasn't the thing keeping me sane.

And just like that, he was gone.

No hug. No kiss.

Not even a goodbye.

The front door clicked shut behind him.

For a second, the silence in the townhouse was so loud it felt like pressure in my ears.

I stood there with the lid still in my hand, blinking hard against the tears that welled up before they had the chance to fall.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

I exhaled slowly. Set the lid on the container and sealed it shut with a soft, decisive snap.

Fine.

If he wasn't going to eat, someone else would.