Silva and the Stars

7 | close save

My dad used to grovel to my mum by purchasing extravagant gifts. I could never understand why she wasn't excited by the cool things he bought her, and it was only later that I realised that each gift corresponded to an affair he had. Only then did I understand why she might not be thrilled with his purchases, given their symbolic meaning.

I know I've fucked up with Rachel.

She was right, I had been looking for an ego boost from her. I wanted her thrown off kilter. I wanted her to admit that she cared for me.

Why had I said those three words?

I kept telling myself that they didn't mean anything to someone who didn't believe in love. 

But they had slipped out so easily, so innocently, it was hard to deny how right they felt when applied to Rachel. Rachel had never asked for my love, she was the one woman who hadn't tried to seduce me into catching feelings for her. 

And she was the only woman who was blind to the effect she had on me.

The next morning, I decided to be upfront about it. 

I try to find Rachel, wandering around the mansion before I realise she's not there. I go to the library to see if she's studying up. But she's not there either. 

At that point, I give up on looking for more potential places that she could be. Rachel had the money and the determination to disappear anywhere she very well pleased, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop her.

I just had to hope that my foolish actions last night hadn't caused an irreparable rift between us, and at some point, she would return to me.

I would be screwed without her.

At least, the business would be.

I spend the day in the library researching, trying to find a loophole.

I'm at home later that night cooking Rachel's favourite meal – dumplings – from scratch. I'm hoping she'll accept these 200 odd dumplings I've prepared as an apology for my cavalier behaviour last night.

I'm in the middle of frying a few up because I know that Rachel has a secret craving for the most unhealthy option of them when I hear the front door creak open. I can hear Rachel's high heels click against the tiled floors. I've never heard a sound so sexy.

Relief weakens my limbs to know that she's okay. And that my fear that she got mugged and kidnapped is only a fear.

A bit of oil spits at me from the pan and I flinch away in pain as it burns my skin.

"Shit." I drop my utensils and put my hand under the running faucet.

"Is that any way to greet your wife?" Rachel says, walking into the kitchen. I angle myself toward her, unable to stop the small smile that the sight of her awakens.

She looks good, her black hair glossy and thick, it looks like she blow-dried it out. She's wearing all black, underneath a grey trench coat, and on her neck dangles a little heart necklace. At the sight of it, my gut clenches, reminding me of my words the previous night.

"I'm sorry for what I said last night. That was out of line," I tell her, remorse filling my voice.

"And you cooked me dumplings in apology?" A wry eyebrow lifts. "Are we forever going to be cooking things for each other?"

"It might be our love language," I say.

Rachel raises a hand, silencing my words. But I'm not sure what I did wrong.

"Please don't say it. I can't handle it."

"What?" I ask.

"Love," she answers simply, stripping off her trench coat and laying it over the back of one of the dining table chairs. Her beautiful frame is revealed to my eyes and I catalogue how stunning she looks in all black, like a bandit, like a sexy assassin.

"You might be better at pretending to be in love than me." Her tone is matter-of-fact, her black heels clicking softly as each step brings her closer to me. "I can barely say the word without flinching."

She picks up one of the dumplings I've already cooked, plopping it in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully, I swear her eyes almost roll back in pleasure. She indicates the pan that I've left on, spitting oil everywhere.

"Shit," I say again, tipping the very crispy dumplings out onto the drying paper. I turn the stove off. Clearly, I can't multi-task, not when it's dividing my attention between Rachel and anything else. I cooked enough before she arrived to last us for dinner anyway.

"Close save," Rachel comments with a smile.

"Do you want me to stop pretending to be in love with you? Is that what you're saying?" I say, returning to the issue at hand. "I can do that if it makes you feel more comfortable?"

Rachel swallows, her smile disappearing as she looks away from me. "No, it's just – please don't say you love me again."

I nod. Not game enough to wrangle further explanation from her, I can respect her feelings and her privacy. "Done."

I pick up the plate of freshly cooked dumplings and walk to the table. "Are you happy to eat now?"

Rachel is still standing by the counter, looking cautious. "The last person to say 'I love you' to me was Louis. Right before he died."

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a/n: Thanks for reading! I'd be so grateful for any feedback you have so feel free to vote and comment your thoughts. ♡