I went straight home and began packing.
Halfway through, Henry unexpectedly returned with a serving of mushroom soup.
I stared at the broken seal and the almost empty container.
Without hesitation, I tossed the leftovers straight into the trash.
Henry looked ready to explode, but when his gaze fell on the pitiful amount of soup left, guilt swallowed his anger whole.
“It’s not leftovers,” Henry said stiffly.
He had clearly forgotten that I was allergic to mushroom soup.
Years ago, when Henry had just come of age, reckless and brimming with pride, he provoked a rival.
The man had aimed to cripple his hand, but I had taken the blow for him.
To comfort me, he had bought me some mushroom soup.
Yet it was that very soup that nearly cost me my life.
Back then, for every second I fought for my life in the emergency room, Henry had knelt outside the door, vowing that he would never let me near mushrooms again.
But even the most searing memories were no match for time. Those same memories faded, leaving not even a scar behind.
Perhaps my unnerving silence made Henry uneasy.
He paced behind me for a while before finally, awkwardly, trying to back down.
“I lost my temper and embarrassed you in public,” he admitted.
“But I’m still the head of the studio. I have to be fair and want to earn people’s respect.
“It’s not that I’m forbidding you from helping with the studio. If you’d just quietly apologize to Tamara—”
“Excuse me,” I said, cutting him off without a glance.
I brushed past him into the bathroom to pack my cosmetics.
His words hung in the air, stuck in his throat, as a strange, helpless frustration surged through him.
