Ch. 74 – Where the Hell Have You Been?

Rhys set his phone face down on the kitchen counter and threw himself into the one sanctuary where he still possessed absolute control: the food.

Cooking was an exact science—a delicate, beautiful interplay of timing, heat, and precise measurements. Unlike the chaotic, predatory women tearing his personal life to shreds, ingredients didn't play mind games. They didn't lie, they didn't twist rules, and they certainly didn't demand conjugal visits under the threat of biological necessity.

He moved through the kitchen with fluid, practiced grace. He prep-cooked a dozen candidate dishes for the grand opening, refining flavors until they hit perfection. He executed immaculate, bite-sized appetizers—savory crostini topped with whipped goat cheese and caramelized fig, delicate seared ahi tuna bites with a sesame-soy glaze—followed by a stunning main course menu featuring pan-seared duck breast with a cherry reduction and garlic-herb crusted rack of lamb.

Everything tasted phenomenal, balanced, and high-end. But when he moved to the dessert portion of the menu, his culinary momentum hit a brick wall.

He tested a rich chocolate tart, but it felt far too heavy after the duck. He tried a lemon-lavender panna cotta, but the acidity clashed horribly with the cherry reduction. Instead of throwing the baby out with the bathwater and scrapping his entire menu, Rhys made a executive chef's call: the appetizers and main courses stayed, but he needed a completely new dessert dish.

He leaned against the granite island, rubbing his temples as his mind raced through flavor profiles. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to brainstorm, his mind and stomach kept drifting back to a single, hauntingly familiar recipe.

Rhea’s crisp, warm, spiced apple pie.

A heavy, aching sadness settled over Rhys’s chest at the mere thought of her. It felt like an absolute eternity since he had burnt that bridge, severing ties with the sweet, gentle woman after their own dangerous, blurred encounter. He missed her comfort. He missed her innocence. He missed the quiet purity of her kitchen.

Before he could sink into a full-blown pity party with his own dark thoughts, his phone buzzed violently against the counter.

Oh, great, Rhys thought, a wave of dark sarcasm washing over him. No doubt it’s Vespera checking in on her investment.

It was a pathetic, bitter realization that his phone screen lit up with his predatory landlord's name far more often than his own wife’s lately. He reached over and flipped the device screen-side up.

To his absolute shock, it wasn't Vespera.

It was Shula.

A completely different, suffocating wave of pure dread crashed straight through Rhys's nervous system. Out of all the contact names in his phone, hers was the absolute last one he expected to see popping up less than twelve hours after the guest room horror.

A lump of heavy, black coal settled in the pit of Rhys’s stomach as he read her text:

Shula: I hope you slept well, my sweet donor. I will be picking you up in two hours for our next visit. Be ready.

Rhys stared at the screen, his chest tightening in absolute revulsion. He wanted no part of this heavy, sickening burden she had forced onto his shoulders. Before he could even begin to formulate a polite, firm excuse to stall her, a second text chimed onto the screen.

Shula: Also... I have a surprise waiting for you. I got you just what you wanted.

Rhys’s brow furrowed, a cold spike of mild concern piercing his daze. What the hell could she possibly mean by that?

Every single time Vespera had promised him a "surprise," it usually involved hidden contracts, psychological warfare, or unexpected guests showing up on his porch. Was Shula playing the exact same game?

Then came a relentless barrage of media notifications.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Rhys tapped the gallery preview, his jaw subtly dropping. The screen flooded with high-resolution, shamelessly explicit photos of Shula. She was fully exposed, posing on a lush, velvet couch in her sunlit home, her bronze, superheated skin glowing with an unmistakable, seductive radiance as she posed for the camera.

"Oh... okay," Rhys muttered aloud to his empty kitchen, letting out a strange, hysterical exhale of sheer relief. "That's it."

It was a morbidly funny commentary on his life that receiving unsolicited, fully nude photos from his best friend's wife was actually the absolute best-case scenario he could have hoped for when it came to a female "surprise."

He couldn't lie, though—his eyes lingered on the screen for a second too long. Shula looked stunning. Her pure Ifrit biology granted her a flawless, sculpted form that looked less like a human body and more like a work of divine art.

Goddammit! Rhys raged internally, slamming the phone face-down onto the counter, his face burning with outrage and guilt. Look at me! I just ended up handing my leash over to another damn master!

He couldn't afford to dwell on his complete lack of moral fortitude right now. The clock was ticking loudly in his head. He had less than two hours before Shula’s car pulled into his driveway, and he still hadn't resolved the crucial dessert dish for his catering launch.

He tried to force his mind back to alternative desserts, but after literally one second of effort, he surrendered in complete defeat. Deep down, he knew the only true alternative was seeking out Rhea and begging for her pie recipe. And he couldn't possibly do that—not after the way they had parted, and certainly not with his life currently collapsing under the weight of three different women.

However, fate had a twisted, hilarious sense of humor.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

A heavy, deliberate pounding echoed through the quiet house from the front door—a sound Rhys was rapidly growing to violently despise.

Rhys sighed, wiping his hands on his apron as he walked down the hallway. He pulled the heavy front door open, fully expecting to see Shula standing there early, or perhaps Vespera coming to collect rent.

Instead, Rhys froze, his vocal cords paralyzed.

Standing on his front porch was the absolute last person on Earth he ever expected to see standing on his doorstep.

It was Durin.

Rhea’s husband. A stout, quiet, incredibly gentle dwarf who usually kept entirely to himself, quietly working his craft and loving his wife with an endearingly soft demeanor.

Except Durin didn't look quiet today.

Durin looked furious. For the first time since Rhys had known the man, the stout dwarf was practically vibrating with a dark, severe anger, his thick beard bristling, his heavy hands clenched into tight, calloused fists at his sides.

Durin—the loving, devoted husband—was standing on Rhys's porch, looking ready to throw hands.

He glared up at Rhys, his deep voice trembling with raw, righteous fury as he barked out his reprimand without even a greeting:

"Where the hell have you been, Rhys?! You haven't come over in days to 'heal' my wife! She's miserable!"

Rhys stood in the doorway, completely, utterly speechless, his brain short-circuiting as he stared down at the enraged husband.