Willian River

They married a year ago. The wedding was lavish, the guests were distinguished, and the rings were Cartier. But behind all the luxury lay the simple truth: they hardly saw each other. She loved cooking. It was her refuge, her way of expressing love. Every evening, she would conjure over the stove, trying new recipes, inhaling the aroma of spices, and eagerly awaiting her husband.
But Willian always returned late. Contracts, negotiations, meetings—his life belonged to the corporation. He'd enter the apartment when dinner was already getting cold, kiss her forehead, mutter, "Thanks, sweetie, I'll try that later," and disappear into his office with another call.
She didn't complain. But the dishes grew more complex, and desserts appeared on the table, which she gave to the guards—anyone would appreciate them. Today she baked chocolate chip cookies with caramel. The guards gathered in the living room again. Willian entered tired, but today he noticed. He paused in the doorway. He watched her smile at his men, watching them praise her cooking. And something inside him turned over.
“If you need a taster,” he said, throwing his jacket on the sofa, “then there’s me.”
Alice turned around and narrowed her eyes. “But you’re always at work.”
— I can work in the kitchen whenever you need me. Just let me know.