My Husband's Affair My Anniversary Gift (Lily and David) novel Chapter 322

Jabco watched her, irritation and helplessness twisting together inside him.

Still no response.

She turned and walked toward the bathroom.

“Riyana,” he called, his patience thinning.

She stopped with her hand on the bathroom door. Then she turned to face him, her eyes finally meeting his.

“I genuinely don’t have interest in what you do or who you’re with,” she said, her voice steady but cold. “If you have a problem, you can walk out of this room. I won’t say a single word.”

She paused, then added quietly, “You know me very well. I don’t like to talk much. So please, leave me be.”

She pushed the bathroom door open, stepped inside, and shut it hard behind her.

The sound echoed.

Jabco stood there, staring at the closed door. His hands slowly curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t knock. He didn’t shout.

He knew her.

If he pushed now, she would retreat further. If he forced words out of her, she would build walls higher.

So he turned away.

He took off his coat, threw it over the chair, and walked out of the bedroom. His steps were slow, controlled, but inside, his anger was burning hot.

Not at her.

At himself. At the man who had hurt her. At the situation he couldn’t fix by force.

As he walked toward the living room, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

The call connected almost immediately.

“I clearly told you,” Jabco said coldly, his voice sharp with suppressed fury, “I don’t want anyone around her. Then why were they there?”

There was a brief silence on the other end, then a panicked voice. “Boss, I’m sorry. I’ll handle it right away.”

Jabco’s grip tightened on the phone. “Why am I paying you if you can’t even deal with gamblers?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He ended the call and let out a long, angry breath through his nose.

He stood there for a moment, rubbing his temples.

Then his thoughts shifted.

Food.

She must be hungry.

He knew her routine. He knew she often skipped breakfast when she was stressed.

And he already knew she hadn’t eaten lunch. He had checked.

Jabco turned toward the kitchen.

He wasn’t good with words when emotions were involved, but this, at least, he could do.

He rolled up his sleeves and opened the fridge, scanning what was inside. Eggs. Vegetables. Rice. Simple things.

Good enough.

He moved around the kitchen quietly, deliberately. The sound of chopping, the sizzle of the pan, the smell of food slowly filling the apartment.

He cooked like he was handling a fragile situation. No rush. No noise.

She hated the way his movements were unhurried, his sleeves rolled up as if this was just another ordinary evening. She hated that he looked… normal.

Jabco Grey was anything but normal.

She knew his temper. She had seen it thousand of times, felt it, sharp and terrifying. She knew how impatient he could be, how dangerous his anger was when it broke free. People feared him for a reason.

Entire boardrooms went silent when his voice hardened. Yet here he was, standing in their kitchen, stirring something on the stove like a man who came home after work and cooked dinner for his wife.

It didn’t make sense. And that was exactly what made her angry.

Why was he acting like this? Why wasn’t he cold, distant, furious? Why wasn’t he demanding answers, questioning her silence, forcing his way into her thoughts?

Her chest burned as she watched him from the doorway. The smell of food filled the space, warm and familiar, and it only made her irritation grow. This was not how things were supposed to be between them. This calm, this quiet care, it felt unfair.

She remembered his words from earlier, the way he had followed her into the room, trying to explain. Explaining himself.

Who asked him to explain?

She hadn’t. Not really.

Yes, she had been angry when she saw him with another woman. Anyone would be. But that didn’t mean he had to come after her with reasons and justifications, listing names, places, witnesses. It only made things worse. It made her feel small, like she was someone who needed to be convinced, someone insecure enough to demand explanations.

She wasn’t.

Her anger twisted into something bitter and sharp.

“I’m not hungry,” she said suddenly, her voice cold and flat.

She turned, ready to walk away and back to the bedroom, anywhere away from this suffocating calm.

She barely took one step before her hand was caught.