The kitchen of the Blackwood estate smelled of rich parmesan, white wine, and simmering arborio rice.
Helen was meticulously plating a generous portion of risotto onto a heated ceramic dish. She arranged a few sprigs of fresh parsley on top, her expression tight with lingering displeasure.
Damon leaned against the kitchen island, his suit jacket discarded in his study, his tie already loosened. He watched his wife prepare the dinner tray with a mixture of guilt and a dark, twisting anticipation.
"I added some extra garlic," Helen said, setting a crystal glass of sparkling water on the wooden tray. "He needs his strength after the day you put him through. Honestly, Damon, making him file on his knees? It sounds medieval."
