Emily
“Donotflickthatpaintbrush at me, Eliot Calder!” I scream, holding my own up in defence.
He blinks innocently. “I had no plans to do anything of the sort.”
I raise a brow, tilting my head. “Really?”
“Why would I ruin our hard work?” he asks, spreading his arms to gesture at the renovation site around us.
It’s been almost two months since Gia broke in and attacked me. Since I killed her. The first month was spent recovering from the stab wound to my thigh. It isn’t one hundred percent better, but the pain is gone and the skin has healed. Now it’s just a matter of rebuilding my strength.
We’ve repainted the hall a soft duck-egg green, adding new décor to finish it off. The living room got a fresh lick of paint too.
The kitchen, though, has been a full project. Instead of just repainting, Eli decided to rip out the cupboards and worktops entirely.
The new cabinets will be a smoky blue, paired with grey-veined white marble countertops. The floor is to be ripped up too and will be replaced with large diamond-patterned stone tiles in a warm, earthy tan.
Yesterday, Eli and Tyler fitted the skeleton of the new kitchen, and the new island is completely ready in a slightly darker blue than what the rest of the cupboards will be.
Right now, though, we’re painting the walls white—a neutral base.
It’s a far cry from the dark grey that used to dominate the space.
Honestly, I’m surprised Eli was so happy to go along with all my suggestions. But I shouldn’t be. He’s always been willing—eager—to give me whatever I want. Even if that means adding colour to his usually monochrome home. One he insists belongs tousnow.
And it does feel like home. I haven’t thought about leaving in months.
“We should paint the nursery,” Eli says with a smile.
I freeze.
“Nursery?” I choke, my eyes widening.
Oblivious to my internal panic, Eli keeps talking. “The spare room. It needs redecorating after everything, so we might as well get it ready for when we have children.”
Cold sweat beads along my spine. Goosebumps pebble my arms.
“Eli…” I start carefully. “I—um—”
“We don’t have to have kids right away,” he continues. “I know there’s more time pressure for women. I just thought, since we’re already decorating, it made sense to—”
“I can’t have children,” I blurt.
The paintbrush clatters to the floor.
His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes are wide. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I should’ve told you. I just—”
“It’s okay, Angel.”
I blink. “It is?”
“Of course. We can always adopt.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to adopt.”
“Okay…” His tone is careful now.