Italian sausage for dinner - part 2.

Sky Taylor’s heels click across the marble like an accusation. The office bled her dry and the opera’s gone dark too, her husband choosing spreadsheets over silk. She drops her coat, steps into the kitchen, and there he is—the new Italian keeping the stove alive with garlic and rosemary. They trade a few words while the sauce simmers. Sky leans against the counter, voice low, telling him the truth she’d rehearsed in the car: she’s starved for attention, needs the kind of Italian sausage that comes hot and uncut. His hand pauses on the wooden spoon, knuckles whitening, and the only sound left is the soft burble of red wine bubbling against the pot’s edge.