I Unknowingly Stole The Mafia Don's Daughter

Vera's POV

The thick scent of tomato curry stew drifted through the air, thick and warm, settling onto every corner of the kitchen like a quiet companion. I wiped the edge of the pot with a kitchen towel and stepped back, scanning the table with a little smile playing on my lips. Jollof rice with fried plantains, peppered chicken, a small bowl of vegetable soup , Andrew's new favorites, arranged exactly how he liked them. Ever since her heard his boss raving about how lovely Nigerian food was, I was tasked with the mission to learn how to cook it. Using multiple YouTube videos and some advice from a Nigerian woman down the street, I managed to perfect some dishes. Everything was neat, perfect, and precise. Just the way Andrew wanted it.

I glanced at the wall clock again. It was 6:52 p.m. He was late again. It had unconsciously became a routine. The cooking, the waiting, the quiet disappointment.

I smoothed out my dress with my palms, the one Andrew had said looked “maternal” on me the last time I had worn it. I thought it was a compliment that I looked like a mother until he explained that I looked old.

I had almost changed out of it, almost slipped into the tighter one Lara had given me for my birthday, but then I had remembered his laugh. “You in this? Maya, come on, you’ll look like a child playing dress-up.”

So i stayed in my cotton floral dress. Quiet. Safe and boring.

My reflection in the microwave’s stainless steel caught my attention. I barely recognized myself anymore. My hair constantly tied up in a loose bun, once creamy skin now dulled from stress, my lips chapped from biting them too often out of nervousness. I hadn’t worn makeup in months, hadn’t painted my nails in years.

Because who was I trying to impress? My husband who barely looked at me. And when he did, it was usually with disapproval and disappointment.

I turned off the stove and began setting the plates. Each movement was automatic and fast. A performance she had mastered.

The door opened up.

“Vera!" Andrew called, his voice low, tired.

“In the kitchen,” I replied quickly, forcing a smile to lift my voice.

He walked in, phone pressed to his ear, nodding at someone on the other end of the call. I waited, standing beside the table, my fingers lightly touching the chair he always sat in.

He hung up after a minute and glanced at the food with a scrunched up nose. “All this?”

“It’s your favorite,” I said, my voice too hopeful. “I thought maybe we could...”

He didn’t wait for me. He just sat down, already scooping rice onto his plate. “You used too much oil,” he muttered.

My chest tightened at the start of his usual criticism. “I...I followed the usual measure.”

“Well, it tastes different.” He hissed out.

I sat across from him silently, my appetite already gone.

After