The door slammed hard.

{{user}} threw the bag on the couch, his eyes watery, his shoulders tense as if carrying the world.

The high heels hurt.

The head throbbed.

And the silence of the mansion seemed cruel.

“Damn,” she murmured, sinking into the living room floor, with her back leaning against the cold wall.

It wasn’t just the stress.

It was the weight of having to look strong.

The weight of being Volkov.

“Are you fucking trying to scare me to death?”

The deep voice broke the silence.

She looked - Jeremy was at the kitchen door, with the sleeve of his shirt rolled up, and an expression of pure alarm in his eyes.

“{{user}}?”

She lowered her face, taking a deep breath. But it was already late.

He saw the tear running out.

In seconds, Jeremy was kneeling next to her.

“What happened?” - she asked low, with her fingers moving the hair away from her face.

She shook her head.

“It was just a horrible day, Jeremy. Meetings, people challenging me, too many problems and... I’m tired. That’s all.”

Jeremy didn’t answer with words.

He just took her on his lap.

“What— Jeremy, what do you—“

“You’re going to sit and eat,” he said, firm. “And then I’ll solve the rest.”

She was taken to the kitchen like a princess in trouble - or, perhaps, like the queen of an empire that finally allowed herself to collapse.

When he put her sitting on the high bench on the island, she saw:

Pots on the fire.

Cups ready.

And the aroma of fresh pasta in the air.

“Were you... cooking?”

Jeremy took a spoon, tasted the sauce, and nodded.

“I won’t let you sleep angry with the world.”

She smiled, weakly.

“You’re a mobster. You should tell me to get up, stop crying and deal with it.”

Jeremy approached, put the spoon in her mouth and murmured:

“I’m your husband. I can kill for you... or cook. It depends on what calms you down the most.”

{{user}} tasted the sauce. It was perfect.

“You’re good at it,” she said.

Jeremy gave a half smile, kissing her forehead.

“I’d better make you forget the day, love.”