The kitchen door swung shut.
The cozy warmth of the room vanished. They were back in the spotlight of the dining room.
Sharon's heart was still pounding from their confrontation. Kenzo's presence beside her felt like a live wire. Every nerve in her body was aware of him.
The family smiled at them, completely unaware. To them, they were just a couple fetching dessert. The lie was suffocating.
They retook their seats. The meal continued. Sharon tried to eat, but the food tasted like nothing.
She could feel the weight of Kenzo's gaze. He was studying her. The anger from the kitchen was now a quiet, simmering pressure between them.
Then Aunt Miko leaned in. Her voice was a sly, cheerful whisper meant only for Sharon's ear.
"So, my dear," she murmured, a knowing glint in her eyes. "A woman's curiosity. My nephew… is he as… intense in the bedroom as he is in the boardroom?"
Sharon's whole body went hot, then cold.
A wave of pure, flustered shock washed over her. She nearly choked on her tea. Her cheeks burned.
She couldn't look at Kenzo. She couldn't look at anyone.
She felt his attention sharpen. He couldn't have heard the question, but he saw her reaction.
He saw the deep blush spreading across her neck and face.
His eyes narrowed slightly, a silent question of his own.
"A-Aunt Miko!" Sharon stammered, her voice a strained whisper.
She fanned her face with her hand, forcing a weak, flustered laugh. "Please…"
It was all she could manage. The older woman just chuckled, patting her arm as if they shared a wonderful secret.
"Your silence says everything, my dear."
Sharon dared a glance at Kenzo. He was watching the exchange, his expression unreadable.
But a faint, dark flush touched his own cheekbones. He understood the nature of the question, if not the words.
The intimacy of the assumption hung in the air, both a torment and a cruel joke.
The rest of the evening was a special kind of torture.
Grand ma brought out a beautiful, old wooden box. She opened it with gentle, reverent hands. Inside, nestled on velvet, was an exquisite hair comb.
It was crafted from pale jade and delicate silver, clearly an antique family treasure.
"This was my mother's," She said, her voice soft. She looked directly at Sharon.
"I always dreamed it would be worn by Kenzo's wife. I want you to have it now."
The words were a physical blow. Sharon's breath caught. The weight of the old woman's love and hope was crushing. I
t was a gift for a future that did not exist. For a woman she was not.
Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She blinked rapidly, fighting them back.
"Obaasan… I can't… It's too precious," she whispered, her voice thick.
"Nonsense," the old woman said firmly. She took the comb and, with surprising strength, tucked it into Sharon's hair herself.
"It belongs with you."
Sharon felt the cool weight of the jade against her scalp. It felt like a crown of thorns. She risked a look at Kenzo.
He was watching the exchange, his jaw tight. He saw her struggle. He saw the genuine emotion she couldn't hide.
For a fleeting moment, the anger in his eyes softened into something more complicated. Something that looked like shared pain.
Later, they were herded onto a sofa together. Someone brought out old photo albums. The family crowded around, laughing and pointing at pictures of a scowling, little Kenzo.
His thigh was pressed flush against hers. The heat of his body seeped through the fabric of her dress.
It was a brand. Every tiny shift, every breath, sent a jolt through her system. She was hyper-aware of the inches separating their hands on the cushion between them.
He pointed at a photo, making a dry comment to his cousin. His shoulder brushed against hers.
A simple, accidental touch. It felt like a lightning strike. She flinched.
He felt it too. He went perfectly still for a second. Then he deliberately pulled his arm away, creating a cold space between them. The rejection was a small, quiet violence.
The evening finally, mercifully, drew to a close. Goodbyes were a blur of hugs and warm promises that felt like lies on her tongue.
"Come back soon, you two!"
"We expect to see much more of you, Sharon-chan!"
She smiled and nodded, her face aching from the effort.
Then they were alone. Standing on the quiet driveway. The night air was cool, a shock after the stuffy warmth of the house. The performance was over.
The silence between them was heavy and absolute.
He walked to his car without a word. He opened the passenger door for her. It was a hollow gesture, empty of all its former courtesy.
She slid into the leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of him. That familiar, clean scent that once meant comfort, and now only meant loss.
He didn't close the door right away. He stood there, framed in the doorway, looking down at her.
The porch light carved sharp lines of shadow across his face. His expression was unreadable.
A storm of fury and hurt and something else, something that looked terrifyingly like grief.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn't look away.
Then, without a sound, he moved. He closed the door. The solid thud echoed in the quiet night, sealing them in together. Trapped in a silence that was louder than any scream.
The drive back to the city was a long, dark stretch of nothing.
He stared straight ahead, his hands tight on the wheel. She stared out her window, watching the ghost of her reflection in the glass. The jade comb was still in her hair.
A beautiful, painful reminder of a life that was never truly hers.