Verity raised an eyebrow in surprise and exclaimed, “Aren’t you always saying you wanted to play this?”
I shrugged and replied casually, “I don’t play games anymore.”
After a brief silence, she snapped, “Fine then. I’m heading to the bathroom, and after that, we’ll go home together.”
Half a minute later, Verity's phone on my desk lit up, displaying a message from Colton: [Wow, Verity! You’re beyond generous and so thoughtful! Not only did you get me the game console, but you also loaded up on all the games. I’ll have to hit the gym harder to repay you—blushing over here!]
Arriving home well past eleven, I quietly entered the bedroom to gather my belongings.
Just then, Verity strolled in, her hair damp from the shower, and paused. Her gaze fell on the thinned-out clothes in the closet, the emptiness echoing the growing distance between us.
Frowning, Verity said, “Tyron, send me your measurements. I’m off to Paris for a business trip next month, and I’ll pick you up a couple of new suits.”
I waved my hand dismissively, replying without much thought, “No need. I don’t care about brands.”
The truth was, I was leaving soon anyway, so it hardly seemed worth the trouble.
Throwing the towel onto the bed, Verity shot me a cold glance and remarked, “Is this because I bought the wrong breakfast? Are you still sulking over that?”
I blinked, poised to explain that I wasn’t angry at all. But she scoffed, cutting me off. “Tyron, you are petty and unrefined.”
Verity pushed me out of the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
After seven years of being together, Verity initiated countless cold wars, each forcing me to swallow my pride to restore peace. But this time, I had genuinely reached my breaking point with her.
Verity remained locked away in the bedroom all night, ignoring any knock that might have come her way.
The following day, I went about my routine and prepared breakfast for both of us.
After finishing my meal and getting ready to leave for work, Verity stormed out of the study, her expression seething with anger.
Brandishing her phone like a weapon, she snapped, “Tyron, take the day off. By 5 PM this afternoon, I need you to make an identical fondant cake for me.”