“You’re eating takeout every day?”
Kevan’s reproachful tone was evident, intensifying the inexplicable guilt Larissa felt.
“I only ordered takeout because I injured my shoulder and can’t cook,” she explained.
“You injured your shoulder?” Kevan narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping between her shoulders, as if he was trying to see through her coat to her injuries beneath.
“My right side. I have a mild fracture.” Larissa tapped the spot of her injury lightly. “It’s not that big of a deal. A few more days’ rest and I’ll be as good as new.”
“How did you injure yourself?” Dylan asked.
Larissa lied instinctively, “I accidentally hit a wall.”
Dylan did not believe her. “Did you really hit it yourself? Are you sure it has nothing to do with your ex-husband and his family?”
His questions frightened and startled her. If it hadn’t been for the suspicion in his eyes, Larissa would’ve thought that he already knew the truth behind her injuries.
“Tell me the truth,” Dylan said. “If it was really caused by them, this injury can serve as proof of your ex-husband’s acts of domestic violence toward you. You could use this to demand more compensation from him.”
Even if Andrew was Travis’ biological brother, this injury of hers really had nothing to
do with Travis.
“Of course, I would like to have more compensation from him, but unfortunately, this injury really was caused by myself,” Larissa said regretfully.
“Alright.” Dylan did not press any further. Instead, he rerouted the conversation to the topic of takeout. “Eating takeout for every meal doesn’t seem like a sustainable solution. Kevan and I hired a cook to make us dinner every night. Why don’t you join
Larissa was tempted.
The food she’d been getting from restaurants outside was greasy. Furthermore, they were almost never guaranteed to be hygienic. Home-cooked meals were always
superior in comparison.
And yet, the thought of eating together with the two men… Larissa was afraid that she would be so stressed that she wouldn’t be able to swallow her food. Worse still,
she might even choke to death.
“It’s fine,” she declined Dylan’s offer politely. “My injury will heal in a few days. I won’t keep on ordering takeout after that.”
Dylan looked at Kevan. The latter had his hands in his pockets, his expression nonchalant.
“Suit yourself,” Kevan said.
Because of Kevan’s extreme germaphobia, the cook prepared dinner every day at Dylan’s place and left before the pair returned home.
Kevan and Dylan sat on opposite sides of the dining table, facing one another.
Dylan picked up his cutlery and asked as he ate, “Do you really believe that Larissa’s injuries were self-inflicted?”
Kevan lowered his gaze, his voice low and cold. “Whether I believe it or not is not important.”
“What’s important then?” Dylan asked curiously.
“The truth,” Kevan said, gripping his utensils tightly.
For Kevan, finding out the truth was simple. It was but a phone call away.
“What is it?” Dylan stood beside him, waiting with a cup of tea in his hands.
Kevan tossed his phone after dimming his screen in the direction of the coffee table.
“Not her ex-husband.”
“Huh?” His answer was beyond Dylan’s expectations.
Kevan paused for a while, a dangerous air radiating from him. “It was her ex-
“What?” Dylan was even more surprised. “Because of her ex-husband?”
“It’s unrelated to her ex-husband.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
Kevan leaned against the couch lazily, his long legs crossed.
“Nothing,” he replied. A sneer tugged at the corner of his lips. “All of this happened as a consequence of her foolish choices back then. She deserves to suffer.”