An uneasy silence enveloped the living room as Verity, finally realizing the absurdity of her request, met my gaze with a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. I simply nodded, acknowledging the moment's weight between us.
“Send me the picture. I’ll head out to get the ingredients now,” I said, determination edging my voice.
Seven years ago, at a dinner party, Verity had been drugged, and in a blur, I found myself at a hotel with her.
When she came to, a wave of regret swept over her, and she wept, blaming me for going along with her reckless decision. Since that night, the burden of guilt had weighed heavily on me.
But once I baked this cake, I would finally be free from the ties that bound me to her.
As I strode toward the door, I sensed Verity’s hesitation before she called out to me. I didn’t bother to turn around, asking, “Do you have any other instructions?”
“...I’ve transferred the money for the ingredients to you,” she said, her voice tinged with reluctance.
Once in the elevator, I opened the chat with Verity and couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the staggering statistics: I had sent her a mind-boggling 5,363 messages, while she had responded 35 times.