He put a clay pot on the stove and then went to the study room. By the time the water had boiled dry and the smell of burning filled the kitchen, he still hadn't returned.
I turned off the stove just as Adrian emerged from the study and started cursing at me. "Emily, are you insane? How do you even manage to burn water? Might as well burn that stupid brain while you're at it!"
He looked down at the scattered soot on the stove's surface, and his face twisted in disgust. "Clean it up. That kind of filth breeds bacteria! Fucking hell, it makes me sick!"
I didn't even flinch. I stopped midway, brushed past him, and half-heartedly responded, "We're out of supplies. Call the cleaning service."
For ten years, I scrubbed that stove spotless.
But this time?
I didn't even bother to lift a damn finger.
Perhaps worried that the bacteria from the kitchen would somehow spread to every corner of the house, Adrian decided not to stay home that night. Before, Adrian showed no interest in household matters as long as I cared for them. But this time was different.
To my surprise, he actually called a cleaning service just to deal with the kitchen and even sent me a message on WhatsApp: