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The next morning I made breakfast for two, the way I always did.

I'd just finished my half and was getting ready to head out when Ashton stalked out of the study, face a mask of ice.

He shoved his phone at me, voice tight with irritation.

"Rowan. Take the day off. Before five PM, I need you to make me a cake. Exactly like this one. Fondant, the works."

Ever since we'd gotten together, I'd made every single one of his birthday cakes by hand.

I'd seen that cartoon icon on his phone before.

It was Juliet's Instagram profile picture.

The living room went quiet.

Just as he was starting to realize how unreasonable he sounded, I nodded.

"Send me the photo. I'm heading out to buy the ingredients."

Seven years ago, at a work dinner that went very wrong, if Ashton hadn't been there, I—fresh out of college—wouldn't have walked out intact.

Once I finished this cake, I wouldn't owe him a single thing.

He watched my retreating back, something unreadable on his face, and suddenly called after me.

I didn't turn around. I just said, "Anything else?"

"...I sent you money. For the ingredients."

I got into the elevator and opened my text thread with him.

I found it almost funny: I had sent him five thousand three hundred and sixty-three messages.

He had sent me twenty-five.

Upstairs, Ashton heard the notification chime: the wire transfer had been refused.

He gripped his phone tighter.