Betrayed On Our Anniversary

"Why is she here, Kael?"

I stood by the hostess stand, my knuckles turning white against the strap of my clutch.

My husband, Kael, didn't even pause. He adjusted his collar and sighed, the sound sharp and exhausted.

"Don't start before we even sit down, Seren."

"It's our third anniversary," I said. "Three years. You told me we were having a quiet dinner."

From behind his shoulder, Marnie stepped into view. She was his stepsister, though anyone watching her slip two fingers through Kael’s belt loop would never guess it. She offered me a soft, pouty smile, her head tilting toward his arm.

"Kael said you wouldn't mind," Marnie murmured. "I was having such a terrible week alone at the apartment. You don't mind sharing him for one dinner, do you, Seren?"

"This was supposed to be our night," I told her plainly.

Kael caught my elbow, pulling me toward the private dining corridor. His grip wasn't gentle.

"She's my sister. She's been dealing with a rough breakup. Stop looking for hidden motives in everything she does."

"She’s hanging off your belt, Kael."

"She’s clingy. She’s been like that since she was seven," he snapped under his breath. "Must you drag your filthy suspicions into every single family interaction?"

I pressed my lips together until they ached. It was always this line. *She’s just my sister. You're twisted for thinking otherwise.* He said it so often and with such righteous irritation that half the time I walked away wondering if I really was just an insecure, jealous wife making monsters out of thin air.

Then the hostess led us into the private dining room.

The smell hit me first. The distinct, briny tang of crushed ice, seaweed, and raw shellfish hung thick in the warm air.

I stopped dead in the doorway.

"A seafood kitchen?" My voice rose an octave. "You brought me to a specialty seafood kitchen?"

Kael pulled out the center chair for Marnie, completely ignoring my face. "Keep your voice down."

"Kael, look at me." I planted myself across the table, refusing to sit. "I have a severe seafood allergy. Not an intolerance. An anaphylactic reaction. I told you that on our second date. I reminded you last month when my throat nearly closed from cross-contamination at your mother's house."

"And you made a massive scene then, too," Kael said smoothly, taking the seat directly beside Marnie. "Don't ruin Marnie’s mood tonight. This restaurant is her absolute favorite. She’s been talking about their tasting menu for six months."

"Our anniversary," I whispered, the absurdity of it hitting me like cold water. "My medical condition is taking a back seat on our anniversary so your stepsister can eat oysters?"

Marnie slid into her chair, resting her chin on her folded hands. "Seren, they have sides. They can make you steamed rice or a salad. Don't be so dramatic."

Before I could open my mouth, the server appeared with three leather-bound menus.

Kael waved his hand, waving the menus away.

"We don't need them," he said. He didn't hesitate for a second. "Bring the chilled king crab legs, two dozen Kumamoto oysters on the half shell, the butter-poached lobster platter, and a bottle of the reserve blanc de blancs. The vintage from three years ago."

The server nodded briskly and stepped away.

Marnie beamed. She leaned her entire upper body into Kael’s shoulder, her fingers trailing down his sleeve. "You remembered the vintage. Still the only one who knows what I like best."

A strange sound tore from my throat—a short, dry laugh. Not a sob, not a gasp. Just a hollow crack of laughter that made both of them freeze.

"You didn't look at the menu," I said, my gaze drilling into Kael. "You didn't check the prices. You didn't ask what was fresh."

Kael’s jaw clenched. "So what?"

"Have you two secretly been here before?"

The silence at the table thickened instantly.

Marnie pulled back slightly, blinking fast, while Kael’s expression turned utterly vicious.

"Seren, what is wrong with you?" he hissed, leaning across the white linen. "Today is our anniversary, and instead of being gracious, you invent cheap gossip out of thin air? You're jealous of my sister? Do you hear how pathetic you sound?"

"I asked a simple question."

"You asked a disgusting question!" Kael barked.

The server returned with the water glasses, his eyes darting between our tense faces.

I took a deep breath, swallowing the bile rising in my throat, and turned to the young man. "Excuse me. I have an airborne and contact allergy to all shellfish. Severe anaphylaxis. Whatever you bring me must be cooked in a separate kitchen area, on completely clean cookware, with zero shared utensils. No seafood stock. No fish sauce. Nothing."

The server paled slightly. "Understood, ma'am. I will inform the chef immediately."

"Thank you."

When the server left, Marnie sighed loudly. "You make everything so exhausting, Seren."

Ten minutes later, the food arrived. Huge silver platters gleaming with cracked crab, towers of oysters resting on beds of crushed ice, and thick ramekins of melted garlic butter.

Without warning, Marnie picked up a heavy porcelain platter heaped with steaming lobster tails and sautéed garnishes, shoving it straight across the center runner—right until the edge knocked against my water glass.

Steam puffed into my face, rich with the smell of boiled shell and melted butter.

I jerked back in my chair. "Move that away from me."

Marnie looked innocent. "I just wanted you to see how pretty the presentation is. You don't have to be terrified of food on a plate."

My eyes snapped to Kael. I waited for him to reach out. I waited for him to slide the dish back, to say, *Marnie, stop, she’s allergic.*

Instead, Kael cut a piece of lobster, dipped it in butter, and chewed slowly.

"Stop acting like a child," he said, not even looking up. "Just try a tiny bite of the garnish. It’s mostly parsley and potatoes anyway. It’s not like you’ll actually die."

The air left my chest.

Every single lingering lie I had told myself over three years—that he was just thoughtless, that he just had poor boundaries, that he loved me under all that impatience—crumbled into dust.

"I'm leaving," I said.

I grabbed my handbag from the floor, shoving my chair back. The metal legs screeched against the hardwood.

"Sit down!" Kael hissed, dropping his fork with a loud clatter. "You are not walking out and humiliating me in this restaurant."

"Watch me."

"Seren, stop making a scene!" Marnie chimed in, half-rising from her seat. "People are looking at us!"

Kael lunged out of his seat and caught my wrist in a hard grip, yanking me toward him. "You think you can just treat us like garbage and storm off? You apologize to Marnie right now."

"Get your hands off me!" I pulled back with everything I had.

In the sudden grapple, our bodies collided with the table. Plates rattled. Water splashed across the linen. Marnie reached out to shove my shoulder away, shrieking, and in the chaos, my hand knocked against a small bowl of grilled vegetable garnish sitting in the lobster broth.

The bowl tipped. A warm chunk of zucchini, drenched in buttery shellfish sauce, flew upward and struck my mouth.

I gagged, instinctively inhaling, and swallowed before I could spit it out.

The taste was instant. Salty. Briny. Lethal.

I froze, slapping a hand over my mouth.

"Look what you did!" Kael snarled, dusting off his jacket sleeve. "You knocked over the whole setup!"

I couldn't answer him.

The heat started in the base of my throat, like someone had poured boiling water down my windpipe. A violent, prickling itch erupted across my jaw and cheeks. My airway tightened, the walls constricting until drawing air felt like pulling wet cement through a coffee straw.

"Kael..." The word came out as a ragged rasp.

He scoffed, turning back to his seat. "Oh, don't start the theatrics now. You barely touched it."

I dropped my bag onto the table with trembling hands. My chest heaved, but no air reached my lungs. Spots swam across my vision.

*The pen. The epinephrine.*

I always kept it in the side zipper pocket. Always.

I tore the zipper open, my shaking fingers digging through receipts, lipsticks, and loose coins.

Nothing.

I dumped the entire contents of the purse onto the white tablecloth. Wallets, compacts, car keys, and hairpins scattered between the platters of crab and melting ice.

I ripped open the inner lining, turning the bag completely inside out.

The pocket was empty.

My emergency auto-injector was gone.