When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2184

Jason listened, calm as dusk. No irritation shadowed his eyes. He simply crossed the cramped kitchen in three sure strides, as though closing the space between them might also brush away her guilt.

"Chelsea, you really don't have to do any of this. Just stay here and live well. I can still take care of us." His voice was gentle, almost apologetic.

He bent, pried the damp rag from her fingers, and gave a crooked smile. "All right. Go on—sit down and breathe. I'll handle the mess."

Chelsea stayed rooted to the floorboards, sorrow swelling behind her ribs until breathing felt like punishment.

"Jason, why don't you teach me?" The plea slipped out, fragile yet stubborn.

There had been a time when she thought herself untouchable—a girl fluent in four languages, who could trade quips with executives, unravel market charts, glide through ballroom steps, coax music from ivory keys. She had believed that made her whole.

Only now did she realize she could not even navigate the simplest rhythms of ordinary life.

"I can't teach you," Jason said, shaking his head, the answer as unmovable as stone.

Confusion flooded her face. She caught his hand, fingers tightening. "Why not? Please don't think you're mistreating me. I want to learn. Aren't these the things most people do?"

Jason held her gaze. "You're not most people, though. You were born never having to scrub a floor. The moment I chose you, I promised myself you'd never have to—unless I'm dead."

He meant every syllable.

Chelsea had been the woman he loved at first glance—his first love, once so distant she felt like a dream he dared not touch.

Now that the dream was real, he guarded it like breath.

She clapped a hand over his mouth. "Don't you dare talk like that."

Her rebuke trembled, as if even the words could shatter.

Jason wrapped his fingers around hers, lowering them tenderly.

"I'm serious. As long as I'm here, I won't let you do a single chore. Now, please—rest. Let me finish up."

Chelsea tried one last protest, but he guided her into the living room before the sentence could form.

With no fight left, she sank onto the couch and watched him move—his silhouette framed by kitchen light, sleeves rolled, shoulders bent to work.

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