The next few days felt like a fever dream of domestic bliss. It was as if a heavy, suffocating veil had been lifted from the penthouse, replaced by the scent of fresh lilies and the quiet, steady rhythm of a man who was actually trying. Jason was attentive, almost hyper-vigilant about my comfort. He called three times a day just to check on my pain levels, and every evening he came home with a small token—a book he thought I’d like, a silk scarf to cover the cast, or my favorite chocolates from the shop on Madison.
By Thursday, the "honeymoon" high was so potent that I felt brave. I felt healthy. I wanted to be the supportive wife he deserved. So, despite the nurse's protests, I had the chef prepare a specialized Waldorf salad—the only thing Jason would eat when he was mid-merger—and I ha
