Avery places a large pot of water to boil on the stove and begins to prepare the sauce. As she cooks, she sends Charles several pictures and captions them, "Guess what's cooking!"

Charles responds almost instantly, "Looks like pasta sauce. Are you making pasta?"

"Are you sure you don't want something more complicated?" she texts back.

"I don't want you to overexert yourself," he answers.

She takes spaghetti from the pantry and places it in the boiling water. The sauce is simmering on the stove, and the smell of ground beef and tomato fills the kitchen. The sauce is the soul of the dish and she wants to get it right.

"Mrs. Howel, we can make your pasta if that's what you want," the cook tries to take Avery's place at the stove.

Avery stands her ground but says nothing. She can't say she's making a special meal for Charles to thank him for the pills. And she definitely can't say that she's scared that someone has been putting something in her food to tamper with her memory. As she cooks, she begins to wonder how she can convince the servants to let her cook all her own meals. She only has six months left in the Howel mansion, but in that time, someone could easily kill her with the toxin.

She tastes the sauce and is surprised to find that it's actually decent. She's about to send another picture to Charles when she hears a familiar voice.

"What are you doing now?"

She slides the phone back into her pocket before he can see who she's messaging. Evan wraps his arms around her from behind and pulls her against his chest. She can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. He holds her naturally and loosely.

"Making pasta?" he asks against her hair.

Avery gestures for the cook to remove the food from the stove and tries to get away from Evan, but he holds her tighter.

"They said you're making pasta. Is it for me?"

"No," Avery says flatly. She leans away from him, trying to escape his touch. Her posture refuses him, but he's too close to her to care.

"I'll ask the cooks to make something for you."

Avery turns to call the cook rolling pastry dough nearby, but Evan stops her. He grabs her jaw with his hand.

"I want you to make it."

"I'm a terrible cook," she says, "I fear my food might make you sick."

"Are you unwilling to do it?"

Avery sneers, "Do I have any reason to be willing?"

Evan squints and smiles devilishly. She's doing it again. Usually, he's annoyed by women's games; their feigned indifference and sneers bore him. But when Avery does it, it's intriguing.

He turns Avery to face him and backs her into the counter. His pelvis rubs against hers and she feels his heat.

"Do you feel it?" he asks.

"Feel what?" she asks with mock innocence.

Evan caresses her cheek and pulls her head close to him. He nips her earlobe and whispers, "Below."

He presses against her harder, but his eyes remain as deep and calm as the sea.

"Oh, I thought I felt the prick of a needle," Avery mocks.

"Wanna try it out here?"

"You shameless bastard!" she mutters, pushing him away, "Get off! I'll make some pasta for you."

Evan allows her to push him away. He stands several feet behind her trying to calm the desire she's aroused. Damn woman. She didn't do a single thing, but he's still turned on. He frowns wondering why he's suddenly started desiring her after years of abstinence.

Footsteps echo in the dining room and Mrs. Florence Howel's imperious voice demands, "Since when do we eat common food like pasta for dinner?"

"It's Mrs. Avery Howel. She wants pasta and insists on cooking it by herself," a servant stutters.

"That woman has too much time," Florence Howel complains, "Now we can't get rid of that wretched smell."

With a flourish, she pulls out a scented silk handkerchief and covers her nose.

"I heard she was sick," Florence Howel continues, "Isn't pasta too rich for a sick woman?"

"It is," the servant agrees.

"Throw it out then!"

Evan emerges from the kitchen, "Actually, it's my dinner tonight."

"Evan, you have your meals prepared by some of the finest chefs in the world. Nutrition specialists consult on every single dish. This pasta is too rich."

Howel's kitchen is known for using only the finest ingredients from around the world. Their meals include truffles from Italy, Russian caviar, and Akamatsu mushrooms. Simple spaghetti has never appeared on their dining table.

"I crave pasta today," he sits and the table and gives his grandmother a challenging look, "Won't you join me?"

Servants bring Evan a plate of pasta and silver utensils. Mrs. Howel walks to the table and sits across from Evan.

"Prepare another pair of utensils for Mr. Francis Howel today," she orders, "He'll be joining us for dinner tonight. And decant a nice Porto—he's bringing a distinguished guest with him."

The servant nods and retreats to the wine cellar.

"What guest?" Evan asks.

"I don't know. Mr. Howel is about to return from his meeting with the president and he said to expect a guest."

The servant places a bowl of pasta in front of Leonie.

"It smells so good," she smiles, "If I wasn't watching my weight I'd love to try some. But pasta is a little simple for such an important guest, don't you think, Granny?"

Avery smiles blandly at Leonie. Leonie and Mrs. Howel make a terrific team. A few hours ago, one wanted to humiliate her and the others want to whip her, but now they sit across from her at the table as if nothing has happened. They're perfect society ladies, Avery thinks bitterly.

She notices Leonie subtly rolling her eyes at her, but she ignores her. After overhearing Leonie's conversation with Evan, Avery understands that Leonie isn't a threat to her. If it was anyone else, Avery would take pity, but she's done dealing with Leonie's shit.

Leonie has tried time and again to frame her. This morning she tried to pin a drugged candle on Avery. Earlier, she threw herself down some stairs and claimed Avery had pushed her. Though Avery's memory is hazy, she distinctly remembers Leonie taking the fall.

Mr. Francis Howel enters the room. He takes off his coat and hands it to a maid as he walks. He rubs his hands together and asks, "We're having pasta tonight?"

"It's Avery," Mrs. Howel hurries to explain, "She was ill and insisted we have it."

"Well, as she pleases then," he says agreeably.

Avery ignores her grandfather-in-law and stares at the man following him. Evan turns to look at the distinguished guest and his expression becomes dangerous. With a deliberate but casual gesture, he puts his arm on the back of Avery's chair as if he's claiming ownership.

"Come on, Charles. It's only simple family food," Francis Howel apologizes, "I hope you don't mind."

Francis Howel turns to regard his family, "My angina has been bothering me again. I asked Charles to dinner since he was free. You know, he's the only doctor that ever makes me feel any better."

Charles sneaks a look at Avery. He had only just left the operating room when he received her photos. Seeing that she'd made pasta, he called Francis Howel and got himself invited to dinner.

"This is probably the craziest and most shameless thing I've ever done for pasta," he thinks, "But it's only just the beginning of what I'd do for Avery."