The students, sensing the toxicity, shuffled toward the door. Once the last guest left and the front door clicked shut, Thomas's facade dropped. His face darkened with rage.
"Elise! Did you have to humiliate us?"
Hazel stepped between us, playing the peacemaker, though her eyes danced with triumph.
"Mrs. Gilbert, I don't want anything," she said softly. "I just want to stay by the Professor's side. Sharing his burdens is enough for me. Please don't fight because of me. If it makes the Professor happy... I'll leave."
Rage detonated in my chest. I snatched the soup bowl from the table and hurled it to the floor beside her.
Porcelain exploded, sending shards flying. Hot broth splashed onto her calves.
"Elise James!" Thomas Gilbert roared, surging to his feet. Before I could react, his hand connected with my face.
The force of the slap knocked me to the ground. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, and the metallic tang of blood bloomed in my mouth.
"You vicious woman! You dare attack a student? Do you call yourself a professor's wife with behavior like that?"
It was the first time I had seen Thomas lose control so completely. Even on our wedding day, he had remained composed, not shedding a single tear of joy.
"It's my fault." Hazel Fox's voice was small and trembling. "No matter how Mrs. Gilbert treats me, I should endure it. Teacher, please don't fight for my sake."
Her words seemed to snap Thomas out of his trance, but only to redirect his fury.
"No apology, is that it?"
He grabbed the clay pot from the table and upended it over me.
The broth looked lukewarm, but the temperature was searing. The moment the liquid coated the back of my hand, my skin screamed in protest, turning an angry red.
Thomas didn't even look at me. He scooped Hazel up in his arms, panic etched onto his features as he rushed toward the exit.
Before leaving, he threw a cold sentence over his shoulder:
"Since Hazel is hurt, you can taste what being scalded feels like, too."
The burn on my hand throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. The Thomas Gilbert who used to cook for me clumsily—who insisted on making me noodles even after burning his own fingers—was dead.
*"Cooking is too dangerous,"* he had once said, his eyes full of tenderness. *"From now on, let me do it."*
Now, he used the soup I had lovingly stewed to mutilate me.