Ch. Mr.chatterbox for her, Mr.Icebox for me? Ice melts and so did my love. 3 Mr.chatterbox for her, Mr.Icebox for me? Ice melts and so did my love. 3

Chapter 3

Next evening Mason comes home.

The second I walk in, he’s holding out a box.

“Hey babe, I know I screwed up. Let me make it right.”

For a split second, something flickers in my chest.

Yeah, he barely talks, but at least when we fight, he tries to apologize.

I take the box. Open it.

Then chuck the whole thing straight in the trash.

Mason’s face goes dark. “What the fuck? Nora picked that out for you herself!”

I laugh bitterly. “Oh yeah? Did you also forget I just had a 104-degree fever? My throat’s still so jacked up I can barely swallow water. You really think I can eat sugary shit right now?”

“And oh—nuts. I’m allergic, remember? Last month I literally almost choked to death and you had to rush me to the ER? That was four weeks ago, Mason. Four weeks.”

Guilt flashes across his face for maybe half a second.

“Okay okay, my bad. But it’s the thought that counts, right? Nora said this bakery’s famous for their peach pastries—”

I stop listening. My eyes drift past him into the living room.

Two people on our couch.

Nora Ashford. And some older woman.

Mason immediately switches gears. “Babe, come meet everyone. This is Nora—she runs NexGen now. Total powerhouse, seriously incredible at—”

“Mason, don’t.” Nora stands up, smiling. Cutting him off smooth as butter.

“You must be his wife? I heard you do design work?”

Before I can even open my mouth, Mason jumps in with this casual laugh:

“Design? Nah, she’s just an assistant at some tiny firm. Runs errands mostly. Nothing serious.”

His laugh might as well be a knife carving into my chest.

This is what I am to him? Not even worth mentioning?

He’s conveniently forgotten who scrubs this place spotless every week. Who cooks every meal. Who gave up opportunity after opportunity just to stay home for him.

I don’t say a word. Just stand there with my jaw clenched.

Mason clears his throat awkwardly. “So yeah, Nora’s mom is visiting. Figured I should play tour guide since we go way back.”

I force out the world’s fakest smile. “Cool. Do whatever.”

Then I slam the bedroom door so hard the frame rattles.

Through the walls I can hear them laughing together, filling in seven years of blanks.

I can hear Mason being all patient and sweet with Nora’s mom—asking about her health, recommending restaurants, explaining tourist spots in this warm, gentle tone I’ve literally never heard before.

He even tries copying her Sichuan accent as a joke. The whole room bursts out laughing.

The charm, the effort, the care—where the hell has this been hiding?

My mind flashes back to after Dad died. Mom cried for weeks straight.

I wanted her to stay with us for a bit. Mason shut it down immediately:

“This is our place. I don’t want family all up in our space.”

“Plus I’m terrible with older people. It’ll just get weird.”

I actually believed him.

Now it’s crystal clear—he’s not bad with older people. He just didn’t want to deal with mine.

Today’s also the most I’ve ever heard him talk in our entire marriage.

I stare at our wedding photo hanging on the wall. Seven years of memories crash over me.

Tears pour down my face.

Bang bang bang.

A few minutes later Mason’s pounding on the door. “Babe! It’s six-thirty! You gonna come out and cook or what?”

So that’s all I am. His personal maid.

I don’t answer.

“Babe, Nora’s starving. I’m just gonna take them out to grab food then.”

Their voices fade down the hallway.

I wipe my face, pull out my phone, and call Sarah. My voice comes out shaky.

“Sarah… I made my decision. I’m taking Milan.”

I can hear her exhale in relief.

“Thank god. This is exactly what you need. Your life is supposed to mean something.”

Seven years. I almost forgot.

I used to dream about being a top fashion designer.

All those late nights sketching ideas, obsessing over every stitch and seam—buried under mountains of dust while my entire world revolved around Mason.

I pull up the job posting one more time.

Five days from now, I get my life back.