TWISTED VOWS

Bonus Scene: Ari’s Sauce

The kitchen is too quiet.

I should be used to silence by now. It’s been a constant in my life—the kind that lingers after a door slams, the hush of a house too big for the people in it. But this silence is different. It’s not cold, not empty. Just… waiting.

I roll my shoulders and turn back to the stove, stirring the simmering pot of sauce with slow, methodical movements. The rich scent of tomatoes and garlic fills the space, clinging to the air, making the house feel warmer than it did an hour ago.

I don’t know why I’m doing this.

Maybe because it’s better than pacing the halls. Better than letting my thoughts run in circles, trying to figure out where I fit in this new life. Maybe because it’s something I can control—something I can create with my own hands instead of waiting for decisions to be made around me.

Or maybe because, for the first time in weeks, I don’t want this place to feel so foreign.

I add a pinch of salt and lower the heat, watching as the sauce thickens, darkens. Nonna always said that a good sauce needs time. Patience. Attention. “It will tell you when it’s ready,” she used to say, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pot. “You just have to listen.”

I never had patience.

But right now, I find myself listening anyway.

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. A steady, familiar rhythm—heels against tile, deliberate but unhurried. I don’t turn as Mila steps into the kitchen, but I can feel her assessing the room, her sharp eyes taking in the cutting board, the simmering pot, the bottle of red wine left uncorked beside the stove.

“You’re cooking.” It’s not a question, just an observation.

I shrug. “Apparently.”

She steps closer, her hands folding neatly in front of her apron. “I didn’t know you could.”

I smirk, finally glancing at her. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mila.”

A low hum of amusement leaves her lips, but she doesn’t argue. Mila is sharp, no-nonsense, the kind of woman who runs a house like a well-oiled machine. She’s been here since Maxsim bought this place—long enough to know its routines, its quiet. Long enough to see that neither of us has figured out what home is supposed to look like.

She moves to the counter, running her fingers lightly over the edge as if testing its sturdiness. “I’ve been with him for years,” she says, voice thoughtful. “Different houses, different cities. Always temporary. Always something to be left behind when the job was done.”

Her gaze flicks to me, assessing. “This place… it’s different. He’s never had a house like this. Never had someone in it.”

I swallow, my fingers tightening around the wooden spoon.

Because I know what she’s saying. This isn’t just another house. This isn’t just another deal. This thing between us—it’s not something he can walk away from.

And neither can I.

Mila leans against the counter, watching me with quiet curiosity. “You know,” she muses, “I’ve never seen him eat a full meal in his own home.”

I blink. “What?”

She nods. “Business meetings, travel, late nights—he eats, of course. But never like this. Never at a table. Always standing. Always moving.” Her eyes drop to the set table, the empty plates waiting. “Maybe he just needs something worth coming home to.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

I look at the table and how I set a plate alongside my own. I don’t even remember making that choice. It was instinctive. Natural.

Something worth coming home to.

I clear my throat, forcing a casual tone. “I’m not trying to lure my husband home with pasta, Mila.”

She smirks. “No? Pity. It might work.”

A small laugh escapes before I can stop it, but I shake my head, turning back to the stove. The sauce is done now—deep, rich, the kind that tastes better the longer it sits.

The kind that lingers.

Mila watches for another moment before pushing off the counter. “I’ll let you finish,” she says lightly, moving toward the door. But before she steps out, she pauses. “He likes spice,” she adds over her shoulder.

I glance at her. “What?”

“The sauce,” she says with a knowing look. “He’ll never admit it, but he likes when it burns a little.”

I arch a brow. “Is that your way of telling me to add more chili flakes?”

Mila shrugs. “It’s your sauce, signora. Do what you like.”

She disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with the simmering pot, the quiet kitchen, the set table.

I grab the jar of chili flakes and add a pinch—just a little extra heat. Not because I need to. But because I choose to.

Because trust isn’t built in grand gestures. It’s built in the smallest of things.

In the meals shared. In the spaces claimed.

In the quiet decisions no one else sees.