The Man Who Never Looked Away novel Chapter 30

"We need to talk."

She took a seat right next to him.

"Sigrid, this project needs to be permanently shut down." His tone was uncompromising.

She froze.

His voice remained dangerously calm. "When you pitched this to me, I explicitly warned you about the risks. Now that regulators are sniffing around, the Harper Group cannot afford any association with this mess."

She hung her head. Tears spilled over her lashes, landing silently on the back of her hands.

He watched her cry in heavy silence.

"If this project falls through, we can find you something else."

"No." She lifted her chin, forcing a fragile, broken smile. "Maybe I'm just destined to fail at everything I touch."

He remained completely quiet.

Leaning in close, she rested her head against his broad shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Just let me borrow your shoulder for a minute."

He didn't pull away.

After a long, agonizing pause, he lifted a hand and awkwardly patted her back twice.

He owed her. It was a debt he could never fully repay.

Finally, her tears stopped.

Flashing him a brilliant, watery smile, she stood up. "I almost forgot, I still need to make you some food."

Disappearing into the kitchen, she rummaged around before settling on a simple packet of noodles.

Fifteen minutes later, she emerged and carefully placed a steaming bowl in front of him.

"It doesn't look like much," she admitted with a shy laugh, "but I promise it tastes amazing."

He stared down at the cloudy, unappetizing sludge—a disastrous cross between a paste and a soup—and felt whatever appetite he had completely evaporate.

Whenever he worked late, his wife would always make him a simple bowl of clear noodle soup.

Her broth was always crystal clear, the noodles perfectly separated and al dente. Without any extravagant ingredients, it was always incredibly comforting and delicious.

He had honestly assumed all plain noodles looked like that.

But with Sigrid staring at him so expectantly, he steeled himself and took a bite.

It was overwhelmingly, aggressively salty.

He immediately set his silverware down. "I waited too long to eat. My stomach isn't sitting right."

Standing up, he grabbed his jacket.

She was sitting in front of her laptop with her knees pulled tightly to her chest, swimming in an oversized cotton nightgown that slipped off one pale shoulder to reveal the delicate curve of her neck. Bare toes peeked out from the hem, her hair was piled in a messy bun, and she was absentmindedly chewing on a pen, completely focused through a pair of blue-light glasses.

He stood in the doorway for several seconds, just watching her.

"Ah!" Spotting him, she startled so violently she nearly tipped backward out of the chair, slamming her knee hard against the underside of the desk. She winced in pain.

He walked over, glancing down at the rapidly reddening skin on her leg.

"Why are you home?" There was a distinct edge of annoyance in her voice.

Ignoring the question, his eyes drifted to the screen, taking in the dense, English-language medical literature.

"What is all this?"

Snapping the laptop shut, she answered flatly, "Research papers. I'm looking into experimental treatments for my uncle."

Always the uncle. Any flicker of warmth he'd felt instantly turned to ice.

"I already reprimanded Corinne. She'll get the medication sorted." He paused, his tone turning demanding. "I'm starving. Go make me some food."

She shot him a deeply unimpressed look.

He had spent the entire evening with his beloved mistress, and she couldn't even be bothered to feed him?

"Fine. Give me a minute."

Standing up, she padded past him toward the kitchen.