Chapter 2 Iron Taboo

Stella's POV

The words hung in the air between us, sharp and dangerous.

"No!" I blurted out, my hands flying up in a defensive gesture. "That's not what I meant at all!"

Ethan didn't move, but something in his expression shifted slightly, waiting. The pressure in the room didn't let up though, and I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

"I just—" I stumbled over the words, trying to make him understand. "If people find out about us, you'll lose your job. The ethics committee will crucify you. I'm trying to protect your career, not—I don't think being married to you is embarrassing, I just—"

God, I'm making this worse.

"I mean, you're obviously successful and attractive and—" I cut myself off before I could dig the hole any deeper. "The point is, I don't want to ruin your life because we got drunk and did something stupid."

The silence stretched out for what felt like an eternity. Then Ethan took a step back, and I could breathe again. The oppressive weight in the air lifted just enough for my knees to stop shaking.

"I appreciate the concern," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "But you're operating under a misconception."

I blinked at him. "What misconception?"

"The professorship is a side interest, not my primary occupation." He walked back toward the kitchen, and I followed on instinct, still trying to process what he'd just said. "I can resign from the position at any time without significant consequence. Our marriage, however, is a legal reality that requires more consideration than a simple dissolution."

Side interest? What kind of professor treated teaching like a hobby?

Before I could ask, he continued. "Since we are legally married, we should at least attempt to behave as such. What would you like for dinner?"

The sudden shift in topic threw me. "I—what?"

"Dinner." He opened the refrigerator, revealing neat rows of fresh vegetables, proteins, and various ingredients I couldn't identify. "Do you have any dietary restrictions I should know about?"

"I can just order something," I said quickly, taking another step back. "You don't have to cook for me."

He glanced over his shoulder, one dark eyebrow raised. "You plan to survive on takeout indefinitely?"

"I can cook," I protested, even though we both knew it was a lie. My culinary skills maxed out at scrambled eggs and boxed mac and cheese, and even those came out questionable half the time.

"Can you?" The skepticism in his voice was obvious.

I crossed my arms. "I make a mean bowl of cereal."

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile but wouldn't let himself. "I'll cook. You can help by setting the table. Plates are in the cabinet above the dishwasher, utensils in the third drawer on the right."

It felt weird, this sudden shift into domestic normalcy, but I wasn't about to argue. The awkward tension from earlier still lingered, and if cooking dinner together could ease it even slightly, I'd take it.

I found the plates easily enough—expensive-looking ceramic in a minimalist white design that probably cost more than my entire dish set back at my apartment. But when I opened the utensils drawer, I stopped short.

"You only have wooden silverware?"

Ethan was pulling out a cutting board and knife, his movements precise and efficient. "Yes."

I picked up one of the wooden forks, turning it over in my hand. It was beautifully crafted, smooth and polished, but still. "Don't you find this kind of impractical? I mean, trying to cut steak with a wooden knife sounds like a nightmare."

His hand paused mid-reach for a tomato. "Use what's there."

The tone was final, brooking no argument, but it only made me more curious. Who exclusively used wooden utensils? It was like something out of a medieval reenactment fair.

Maybe he's one of those eco-warrior types? But the apartment didn't scream environmental activist. Everything was too sleek, too expensive, too carefully curated.

I set the table with the wooden utensils, still puzzling over the strangeness of it, then watched as Ethan moved around the kitchen with the kind of confidence that came from years of practice. He wasn't just competent—he was actually good at this, chopping vegetables with quick, precise movements and adjusting the heat on the stove without even looking.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" I asked, perching on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island.

"Necessity." He didn't elaborate.

Right. Not a talker. I'd noticed that last night too, in between the philosophical debates and the laughter. He'd been generous with his thoughts on abstract concepts but stingy with personal details. I'd been too drunk and too caught up in the moment to care.

Now, watching him cook in his own kitchen while wearing yesterday's dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, I realized I knew almost nothing about the man I'd married.

This is insane. This entire situation is completely insane.

"I'm going to run down to the store," I announced suddenly, sliding off the stool.

Ethan looked up from the pan he was stirring. "For what?"

"Just... stuff. I'll be quick."

I didn't wait for a response, just grabbed my phone and headed for the door. I needed air, needed space, needed to do something normal to ground myself in reality.

The Target two blocks down was blessedly ordinary, full of tired parents and college students stocking up on ramen. I made a beeline for the kitchenware section, scanning the shelves until I found what I was looking for—a decent set of stainless steel flatware. Nothing fancy, just normal forks and knives and spoons that could actually cut through food like civilized utensils.

If I'm going to be stuck here for however long it takes to sort this mess out, I'm at least going to eat like a normal person.

I grabbed a few other things too—some snacks, a couple of drinks, a phone charger since I'd left mine at Lucy's place. By the time I made it back to the apartment, I felt slightly more in control.

Ethan had finished cooking and was plating what looked like an actually gourmet meal—seared salmon with roasted vegetables and some kind of sauce that smelled incredible. My stomach growled loudly enough that he definitely heard it.

"Perfect timing," he said without looking up.

"Yeah, I—" I pulled the flatware set out of the shopping bag with a triumphant flourish. "I got us some real silverware! No more trying to saw through food with wooden—"

The words died in my throat.

Ethan had gone completely still, his entire body rigid. When he turned to face me, his expression made my blood run cold. His pupils had contracted to pinpoints, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched so tight I could see them jumping. The air pressure thing was back, but different this time—sharper, more dangerous, like standing too close to a caged predator.

"Put it away." His voice was low, controlled, but I could hear something underneath it that made every instinct I had scream danger. "Now."