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After hanging up the phone, Winona glanced at the trending topics. People had already flooded Harvey's profile to curse him out, and the identity of the real mistress had been exposed. She was also an employee in the interview department.

That night in the private room, that same woman had insulted Winona relentlessly and was notoriously close friends with Grace.

Winona's mood instantly improved. A smile touched her lips just as she caught Zachary rolling out of the elevator in his wheelchair.

Her hands stalled. Having not seen him in three years abroad, suddenly living under the same roof meant she still needed a few seconds to adjust her reality every time she saw him.

Truthfully, during the first two years of their marriage, despite the hardships, there had been moments of genuine sweetness.

She put down her phone and asked politely, "Zachary, what do you need?"

Zachary's tone was incredibly flat. "I'm hungry."

"I'll have the chef come over and whip something up for you."

But Zachary was clutching his stomach, his brows knotted together and his nose covered in a sheen of sweat.

Winona suddenly realized he wasn't just hungry; his chronic stomach pain had flared up again.

The Shaw Group had expanded aggressively over the past three years. Zachary was likely so consumed by work that he barely had time to eat.

Once he threw himself into his job, he was always this reckless with his health.

She expertly located the first-aid kit, pulled out his stomach medication, and poured a glass of warm water. Sliding the pills toward him, she offered, "Take these. Should I make you some pasta?"

She used to excel at these things—simmering soups, cooking meals. To win over the rest of the Shaw family, she had molded herself into the perfect, dutiful wife.

"Thank you."

Zachary took the glass, swallowed the pills, and looked up at her. "If it's too much trouble, you can have someone else do it."

It was past eleven at night; the kitchen staff was already asleep.

Winona didn't want to disturb them, so she headed into the kitchen. "I'll just throw together some spaghetti. You'll have to make do. There's no time to simmer a proper soup."

"Alright."

Gripping the glass, Zachary sat quietly in his wheelchair, his gaze slowly tracking her movements.

Under the bright kitchen lights, she slipped on an apron just like she used to, rummaging through the fridge for ingredients.

The overhead lighting cast a warm glow over her, making her look incredibly soft and inviting.

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