I Walked Away And He Lost His Mind (Zephyra and Steven) novel Chapter 482

“Steven, I love this gift! I’ll treasure it forever!”

Steven stared at me intently, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Good. I’m glad you like it.”

It wasn't until much later, when Queena threw a stack of photos at me, that I learned the truth. Steven’s trip abroad had been to see Verna. While I was desperately waiting for his call, he had been arguing with her, and he was in no mood to deal with me.

That’s why he rejected my call.

And the gift… it wasn't a birthday present for me. It was something Verna had rejected, a peace offering he had made to her…

A sharp pain pierced my heart, and I jolted awake, breaking free from the nightmare.

I was covered in a cold sweat, my breathing ragged. It took a long moment for me to compose myself.

“What’s wrong with me? Why do I keep remembering things from my past life…?”

I thought of the diary in my dream, and then I remembered the diary Steven had found in my room at the Jones family home after I was reborn.

A headache began to throb in my temples.

I did have a habit of keeping a diary, both before and after marrying Steven, where I recorded everything that moved me.

After being reborn, I had taken all my diaries with me. I’d even managed to snatch back the one filled with my feelings for Steven, the one he almost saw before the divorce.

But a sudden thought struck me. My death in my past life was so abrupt. I never had a chance to get rid of those diaries, the ones that chronicled years of me fawning over him. With Rachel and Horace gone before me, no one was there to handle my things. I wondered who might have read them.

Whoever read them would surely think I was the world’s biggest fool.

But after searching everywhere else and finding no one, I frowned and headed for the kitchen.

When I pushed the door open, a fragrant aroma hit me. The man who was always in tailored suits was now dressed in casual clothes. The hand that usually held a pen was now holding the handle of a frying pan, expertly flipping a fried egg.

On the other burner, a pot of soup was simmering. His other elegant hand sprinkled in some salt, seasoning it with a practiced ease, as if he had done it a thousand times.

My eyes widened in utter shock. Was I still dreaming?

Steven, who had never lifted a finger in his life, was actually cooking?

As if sensing my presence, he turned to look at me. The harsh lines of his handsome, composed face seemed to soften in the warm, domestic haze.

“You’re awake? Breakfast is ready,” he said, turning off the stove. He walked toward me with his long legs and wrapped me in his arms, the gesture as natural and intimate as if we were a long-married couple. “I made soup and pasta. Which do you prefer?”