Page 222 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

Wald must feel the noose tightening.

His mood seems to darken with each passing day. Whenever he appears in public, his smile is rarer, more strained. His statements are shorter. More aggressive, too.

Does he know that Bianca and Gaspard gave him up?

Has he realized that he walked straight into the trap we set for him?

I don’t know.

And, in the end, it no longer really matters.

For the first time in a long while, his future no longer depends on his schemes, but on justice.

Soon, he will have to answer for everything he has done.

In the meantime, Dante and I continue rebuilding our lives.

Each day feels a little more like a future and a little less like survival.

We’re preparing for our move. Making plans. Learning how to be happy again without constantly looking over our shoulders.

And soon, I hope, Hector Wald will be nothing more than a distant memory.

Today, Dante and I are attending a cooking workshop hosted by one of France’s most renowned chefs.

Our mission: to create the perfect mille-feuille. Light, crisp, delicate, and generously filled with pastry cream.

In theory, it sounded like an excellent idea.

In theory.

We join the group, greet the six other participants and the chef. Dante impresses everyone instantly, as always—he hasn’t done anything special, he simply walked into the room. I watch him greet everyone with that effortless ease that has always driven me crazy, and I wonder—not for the first time—how someone can be so irritating and so attractive at the same time.

Thankfully, aprons are quickly handed out, and each pair moves to their workstation.

“Step one,” the chef announces in a voice that tolerates no disagreement, “the puff pastry. The lightest, crispest pastry possible. Only two rules: patience and precision.”

I nod seriously.

So does Dante.

Far too innocently.

We naturally divide the tasks: I weigh the ingredients, he mixes. It starts well. Too well, honestly—I should’ve been suspicious.

The problem appears when it’s time for the butter.

“More,” he tells me. “Add more.”

“There’s exactly the right amount already.”

“You sure?”

“I’m reading the recipe, Dante.”

“And I have instincts.”

We stare each other down.