The Cruel Gentle Words

In the evening, warm yellow light gently spilled over the dining table, draping the entire restaurant in a soft veil of warmth. Rory Chandler and I sat across from each other, enjoying the carefully prepared dinner. On the table were fragrant steaks, delicate salads, and the red wine we both loved. Everything was as beautifully familiar as always, the atmosphere making me feel at ease. "Was work going well today?" I asked Rory softly, a tender smile playing on my lips. Lately, he seemed so busy at work, often working late into the night, and I felt a little sorry for him. Rory looked up, a flicker of tiredness in his eyes, but still smiled at me and said: "Hmm, it's going pretty smoothly. It's just that the project has reached a critical phase, so things are a bit busy." As he spoke, he picked up a piece of steak and slowly chewed it. I looked at him with concern, unable to stop myself from saying, "No matter how busy you are, take care of yourself—don't overwork." Rory Chandler nodded, then suddenly paused, his eyes settling on me as he softly said, "you're so petite." His voice was gentle, yet like a stone skipping across a still lake, it sent ripples through my heart. I was a little taken aback, looking at him in confusion. "So petite? Why did you suddenly say that?" I tried hard to search my mind, trying to understand why he would use such a strange expression. Rory Chandler seemed to realize his words were a bit abrupt too; he smiled and explained, "It's nothing, I just think you're small and cute." As he spoke, he reached out and patted my head, the gesture very intimate. I forced a smile, but deep down I felt something was off. He usually expressed his affection for me with sweet and familiar terms like "Darling" or "Dear." But today, this "so petite," inexplicably, made me feel strange, as if there was some secret behind the word that I didn't know. I opened my mouth, wanting to ask more, but seeing Rory Chandler's weary expression, the words caught in my throat. Maybe I was overthinking it; he probably just said it in passing, I told myself. After dinner, Rory Chandler stepped onto the balcony to take a work call. I stayed in the kitchen tidying up, water flowing softly in the sink. I washed the dishes mechanically, but my mind kept returning to Rory Chandler's strange words. Suddenly, my phone's ringtone shattered the silence in the kitchen. I quickly wiped my hands and picked up my phone; Rory Chandler's name lit up the screen. I was a little confused—he was right there on the balcony, so why was he calling me? "Hey, what's up?" I answered softly. Rory's voice came through, a bit serious: "Darling, didn't you say you wanted to try the pasta at that Italian place?" "I just remembered—they have a pasta made with shrimp sauce, and you're allergic to shrimp, right? Be sure not to order that one." His words made a warm wave rise in me; he actually remembered my shrimp allergy and reminded me so thoughtfully. But for some reason, beneath this warmth, a subtle unease pricked at my heart, like the eerie calm just before a storm, making me inexplicably anxious. "Okay, got it. Thank you for being so thoughtful." I tried to keep my voice light and cheerful. "No need to be so formal with me. If you want to try it, I'll take you to taste other flavors another day." There was a smile in Rory Chandler's voice. After hanging up, I set the phone aside and kept tidying the dishes, but Rory's words kept echoing in my mind. His care was as usual, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, like an invisible hand was slowly peeling back truths I wasn't ready to face. The next day at noon, I had plans to meet my sister at a café. After a hectic morning, being able to enjoy a relaxed lunch and chat with my sister was what I looked forward to most. We ordered some light meals and chatted as we ate. Just then, the delivery arrived—a serving of Steamed Egg. I opened the delivery box, a familiar scent rose up, but when I saw the scallions sprinkled all over the Steamed Egg, my smile immediately froze. "What's wrong?" My sister quickly picked up on my unease and asked with concern. I frowned and said helplessly, "I hate scallions on steamed eggs more than anything. I don't even know how Rory Chandler ordered it—he doesn't even know my tastes." Ever since I was little, I've never liked scallions. If there are scallions in the food, I can hardly swallow it. My sister glanced at the steamed egg and also thought it was odd. "Maybe they sent the wrong order? You should call the restaurant and check." I shook my head, feeling a sudden, inexplicable surge of anger. This wasn't just a steamed egg with the wrong seasoning—it felt more like a fuse, setting off all the doubts and unease I'd been bottling up these past couple of days. I decided I had to go to Rory Chandler's company and get to the bottom of why he's been acting so strange lately, why he even forgot my tastes.