She stiffens slightly.
“What are you doing?”
“This helped my ex-wife,” I say evenly. “She had awful period pain. Belly rubs were the only thing that made a difference.”
“Oh,” she says. Then, more carefully, “Your ex-wife.”
“Yes.”
“You’re divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Is this some tragic lost-love situation you still emotional work through?”
“No,” I say dryly. “It really isn’t.”
I keep the movement slow and consistent.
“It was a car crash of a marriage,” I add. “We got married because we lusted after each other and thought that would be enough.”
It wasn’t.
“I was running a successful restaurant in Manchester,” I say. “She worked with me. I thought we were building something together.”
Chloe stays quiet, listening without interruption.
“She was actually building an exit plan,” I say. “With my money.”
I feel her body tense slightly. I don’t stop.
“When we divorced, her lawyer was very good,” I continue. “Mine was enthusiastic. And sleeping with her.”
She winces. “Fuck.”
“She took the restaurant. And most of my savings. I kept my knives and some dignity.”
She leans back against me more fully without thinking, and I register it with absolute clarity.
“That’s awful,” she says softly.
“It was instructive,” I reply. “I don’t recommend it.”
Her breathing slows. The tension eases under my hand.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“For the food,” I say lightly.
“And this.”
I don’t answer. I just keep the circles slow and deliberate.
“Was there ever anyone for you?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Who cleaned me out and ruined my life?”
I snort before I can stop myself.
