His Perfect Trap, My Perfect Revenge

Chapter 12

"Where's Miranda?" Magnus asked, his brow still furrowed.

Sabrina stirred her spoon absently. "I woke up early. She was swamped, so I told her to handle other things." She nudged the seafood chowder toward him with a soft smile. "Try it while it's hot—it loses its flavor once it cools."

Magnus's frown deepened as the bowl slid closer. Seafood had never been his thing. Sabrina—

If it were Chelsea, she'd never have made that mistake.

The thought struck him like a punch to the gut. Why the hell am I thinking about her again?

"Magnus?" Sabrina's voice pulled him back. She studied his blank stare at the chowder. "What's wrong? Not your taste?"

Before he could answer, the front door swung open. Miranda hurried in, breathless. "Miss Knowles, thank you for covering the kitchen—" Her words died as she spotted the bowl. Her face fell. "Sir, I'm so sorry. I forgot to tell Miss Knowles you hate seafood."

She snatched the bowl and marched to the kitchen, but not before muttering just loud enough for Sabrina to hear: "Strange. She used to know that."

Sabrina stiffened, heat creeping up her neck. "Magnus, I—"

"It's fine." He offered a thin smile, grabbing a napkin. "Three years is a long time. Can't expect you to remember everything." Tossing the napkin aside, he stood. "I'm changing. Come with me to the office later—you'll need to get up to speed if you're my assistant."

"Okay!" Her voice was honey-sweet, that familiar lilt making his chest hitch before he turned upstairs.

Then, without thinking, his voice carried down the steps: "Babe, where's my black tie with the blue stripes—"

He froze. Even he was stunned.

Sabrina blinked, confused by his abrupt silence.

Magnus said nothing. Jaw tight, he retreated to the bedroom.

Idiot. She's not here anymore.

He stood before the open closet, scanning the neatly hung ties. None were the one he wanted. With a grunt, he yanked one at random and looped it around his neck.

At the office, Magnus guided Sabrina through departments, her notepad scribbled with eager notes. But when he yanked open his desk drawer, his breath caught.

Tucked in the back: a near-expired bottle of stomach meds.

A dull ache spread through his ribs.

He remembered the early days of their marriage—the company barely surviving, him drowning in late-night meetings, his gastritis flaring like a live wire. Chelsea had been relentless: morning porridge, midnight soups, always stashing meds in his desk in case she wasn't there.

As the company stabilized, the flare-ups faded. The bottle had been forgotten—until now.

Seeing it again, all he saw was her.

Gritting his teeth, he snatched the bottle and chucked it into the trash.

"Someone else can finish the tour," he muttered, dismissing Sabrina as he stared at the trash can, motionless.

That afternoon, he took her to a partner meeting.

Sabrina's smile vanished the second she saw their guest.

Calvert Hansen.