When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2183

The number left Chelsea's lips before she realized how it might sound.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, cheeks warm. "Cooking isn't exactly my strong suit."

Living overseas, she had survived on takeout and instant meals. There was simply no need to tire herself out by cooking.

Jason smiled. "It's fine. I never expected you to cook. Ordering for me is already sweet of you. But from now on, just order for yourself—I can grab dinner at work."

In truth, he didn't have the heart to tell her that the meal had cost a small fortune.

For Chelsea, one thousand counted as frugal; for ordinary paychecks, it was an indulgence bordering on reckless.

Jason would sooner shoulder extra overtime than let her feel deprived, yet the price tag still knotted his stomach.

"That won't do. I won't have an appetite if I have to eat alone," she protested.

Jason nodded, defeated by the earnestness in her eyes. "All right—I'll come home earlier each night so we can eat together."

Chelsea laughed, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Mmm. You're simply the best!"

Budgeting was an abstract concept for her; by her standards, tonight's meal was practically austere.

Dinner finished, Jason leaned back, letting the hush settle over the apartment. Then the washing machine chimed—a bright, insistent trill that sliced the quiet like a doorbell at midnight.

"I tossed your clothes in with mine earlier. I'll go hang them up now." Chelsea said, pride lilting through every syllable.

Jason blinked. "Clothes?" he echoed, confusion pooling in his eyes.

The next second, he rose from his chair, brushing invisible crumbs from his trousers. "It's okay. I'll do it," he said, voice gentle but firm.

Chelsea hurried after him, the hem of her cotton dress brushing the parquet as though she feared leaving him alone with any task at all.

Jason flipped the lid. The suit he had worn only once—a tailored, dry-clean-only navy—lay soggy, limp, and already wrinkled beyond belief. A twist of dread hit his ribs.

The tailored jacket was the kind that should never see a washing machine; each stitch meant for boardrooms and contracts, not the spin cycle.

"Chelsea." His quiet utterance of her name held more warmth than any reprimand.

"What is it?" she asked, sliding a hanger free, her eager hands mid-motion.

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