Chapter 7
Cyrus rode his battered electric scooter, weaving aggressively through the congested Queens traffic.
The freezing wind whipped against his face, but his mind was entirely occupied by what Aliya might be doing. Was she maxing out his credit cards online? Did she bring another man into the apartment?
He parked the scooter outside the building. Instead of his usual heavy, exhausted sigh, he sprinted up the stairs taking two steps at a time.
He stood outside the apartment door and held his breath, listening. There was no blaring television. No sound of her yelling on the phone.
Cyrus pulled out his keys. He deliberately slowed his movements, silently sliding the key into the lock. He violently shoved the door open.
He stepped into the living room like a panther ready to strike, his eyes darting to every corner, fully prepared for a disastrous scene.
But the living room was empty. The clothes and trash the original owner usually left scattered everywhere had been neatly folded and cleared away.
Instead of the stench of cheap perfume, the air was thick with the rich smell of butter and pan-seared steak.
Cyrus froze in his tracks. He turned his head toward the kitchen, following the scent.
Aliya was wearing a ridiculous floral apron. She held a spatula, staring with absolute concentration at a cheap cut of steak sizzling in the frying pan.
She heard the door slam and whipped her head around. Seeing Cyrus standing in the entryway, she jumped, nearly dropping the spatula onto the floor.
Aliya's brain short-circuited. "Why... why are you home so early? Don't you have a DoorDash shift?"
Cyrus didn't answer. He walked slowly into the kitchen. His eyes were locked onto Aliya as if she were an alien imposter wearing his girlfriend's skin.
He glanced at the counter. There was washed broccoli and diced potatoes. It was a deliberately prepared dinner.
Cyrus's voice was ice-cold, heavy with suspicion. "What are you doing?"
Aliya felt the hairs on her arms stand up under his scrutiny. "I... I'm making dinner," she stuttered.
Cyrus's mouth twisted into a mocking sneer. "You? Making dinner? You complain that the buttons on the microwave are too complicated."
Aliya cursed the original owner's uselessness in her head. She forced herself to look him in the eye. "I watched a YouTube cooking video today. It looked easy, so I wanted to try."
Cyrus took a step closer, his massive frame trapping her between his chest and the counter. "Where did you get the money for steak? Did you steal from my emergency stash?"
Aliya shook her head violently like a rattle drum. "No! I found a supermarket coupon flyer on the coffee table! Today was the last day to use it, and I saw some discounted meat, so I just used the loose change from the jar!"
This hyper-realistic, penny-pinching answer caused the accusation in Cyrus's throat to die instantly.
He looked at the steak in the pan. The edges were indeed slightly gray and cheap. He looked back at Aliya. There was a smudge of flour on the tip of her nose. His suspicion didn't vanish; it mutated into profound confusion.
A woman whose entire personality was built on vanity and high-end restaurants was suddenly using coupons for discount meat. It was more surreal than catching her cheating.
Cyrus took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you want? Just say it. Stop playing this domestic housewife game."
Aliya knew that dropping the job interview bomb right now would just look like a cover-up. She needed to stabilize him first.
She took a deep breath, forcing a look of grievance onto her face. "I don't want anything. Last night I said we were too poor to afford a baby. I just... I wanted to save some money."
The sentence struck the exact same nerve she had hit last night. The impenetrable wall of Cyrus's defenses showed a microscopic hairline fracture.
He looked at her deeply. The emotion in his gray eyes was impossible to read. He turned on his heel and walked toward the bathroom.
"We eat in ten minutes," he ordered.
Watching his back disappear, Aliya leaned heavily against the counter. She let out a long breath, feeling like she had just survived a war zone.
She quickly plated the steak. She calculated her next move: once he had food in his stomach and his guard was slightly lower, she would drop the real bomb at the dinner table.
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