The evening had fallen heavy over the village when Daniel returned home, his face darkened by the weight of business, his stride sharp as ever. He had expected warmth — the aroma of dinner, the order of a perfect household. Instead, the sharp scent of something burnt clung to the air.
The house smelled faintly of smoke and spices, but not in the way Daniel had imagined when he stepped through the door. He had expected warmth, the inviting scent of roasted meat or fragrant rice. Instead, the kitchen reeked of burnt onions and charred bread, the air heavy with failure.
His eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the table. The stew was clumpy, almost scorched at the bottom of the pan, and the bread was darkened beyond recognition. His jaw tightened. "What in God's name is this?"
Linda stood there, her face pale, strands of hair falling loose from her braid, her hands trembling as she tried to stir the ruined stew. She looked up at him with tired eyes but said nothing.
"Can't even manage one proper dinner?" he lashed out, the sting in his tone harsher than intended. "You had all day, Linda. What excuse could there possibly be for this mess?"
Her lips quivered, but she bit back her words. For once, the defiant fire in her eyes dimmed. Instead, tears welled up, slipping silently down her cheeks. She set the spoon down with shaking fingers, turned on her heel, and hurried out of the kitchen.
Daniel stood frozen. Linda — his fiery, sharp-tongued Linda — had cried. No retorts. No defiance. Just silent tears. His eyes followed her retreat, and that's when he noticed it: a faint, dark stain on her clothes. Realization struck like ice water.
Pride clawed at his throat, but guilt gnawed harder. He couldn't apologize — not openly, not in words. Not yet. But there was something else he could do.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his face. "Damn it…"
Daniel prided himself on being a man of control, of strength. He had lived by the rules drilled into him since boyhood: men commanded, women obeyed. But the image of Linda's tears—so unlike her fiery tongue—gnawed at him. He had broken something delicate, and though his pride screamed against it, guilt weighed heavier.
For a long moment, he stared at the blackened pot. Then, against every rule of manhood and village custom, Daniel rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the kitchen.
The cookbook lay at the corner of the shelf, its spine cracked, Linda's small notes scribbled in the margins. He picked it up with hesitant fingers. "Let's see what you were trying to make…" he muttered.
He flipped through pages until his eyes landed on a marked recipe—Tavuklu Pilav, chicken with rice. A humble dish, yet one she had circled with neat ink. Her favorite.
Daniel set to work, awkward at first. He had never chopped an onion in his life, never measured rice or broth. The knife slipped once, nearly nicking his finger, and when smoke rose from the pan again, he cursed under his breath. Yet slowly, the rhythm came. Butter melted into golden pools. Rice simmered until tender, absorbing the rich chicken broth. He stirred cautiously, almost protectively, until the dish began to resemble the picture in the book.
Next, he spotted another page folded—Mercimek Çorbası, red lentil soup. He thought of her pale face, the way she clutched her stomach, and decided she would need warmth more than anything. He ground cumin, stirred the pot, letting the earthy aroma fill the air.
On a whim, his eyes flicked to the basket of fruit. Berries, pineapple—things he usually ignored. But he remembered her expression in the market weeks ago, when she had paused over the fruit with a longing smile. He pressed them into the mortar, blending them clumsily into a thick smoothie.
And finally, as the tray came together—pilav, lentil soup, a glass of berry-pineapple smoothie—he added a single piece of lokum, dusted with powdered sugar, resting on the edge of the plate. Sweetness after bitterness.
Meanwhile, Linda curled in her room, curled fists pressed against her aching stomach. She thought of how much she hated everything — the village, the rules, her body, and even Daniel's cruel words.
But then, the door creaked open. Daniel stood there, awkwardly balancing a tray in his strong hands. His expression unreadable, his pride still stitched across his jawline.
Yet in his hands… a plate of steaming food, carefully placed.
Her eyes widened. "What…what is this?"
Daniel straightened, his face unreadable. Pride warred with the urge to kneel beside her, to explain. "Dinner. Proper dinner."
"You…cooked?" Her voice cracked with disbelief.
His jaw tightened. "Don't make me say it twice."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then her gaze shifted from the tray to his face, and something softened in her eyes. Not forgiveness—not yet—but the faintest glimmer of surprise, of recognition that behind his iron pride, there was a man who cared more than he would admit.
And though Daniel would never say the words aloud, that night Linda tasted the unspoken apology in every spoonful.
In a dimly lit chamber, David Armani sat across a grand chessboard. The board was scattered with toppled pawns and discarded knights, but his eyes burned only on the queen that dared to stand against his king.
With a deliberate move, he slid his black king across the board, striking the opposing queen. He picked the delicate ivory piece between his fingers, twirling it once with mocking elegance.
"Poor, pretty queen," David sneered, his lips curling into a cruel grin. "So brave, so foolish… and so very breakable."
Then, with a sharp crack, he snapped the queen in two with his bare hand. The shards fell across the board, mingling with broken pawns.
His laughter, low and venomous, echoed in the room. "You'll shine in your little rebellion, Linda… until I decide to close my fist."
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Linda's laughter still lingered in the room like a fragile flame when a sudden cough wracked her throat. She set down her spoon, hand to her chest as the smoothie slid the wrong way.
Daniel instantly leaned forward, palm firm and steady against her back, rubbing in small circles. "Eat slowly," he muttered, his voice low, almost protective despite his gruffness.
She nodded, still coughing lightly, unaware of the eerie echo unfolding miles away.
And far away, in the warmth of her husband's steady touch, Linda coughed again—unaware of the curse that had just been set in motion.
PLEASE SUPPORT
LOVE FROM,
♡LINDA AND DANIEL♡