“You need your most-used spices within arm’s reach, Clara,” he had told me with a warm smile.

“It will make your videos look more natural.”

I had been so touched by his thoughtfulness.

Now, a cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

I recalled the dozens of times Julian had commented on my exact measurements when he wasn’t even in the room.

“You used slightly more nutmeg in the custard today, didn’t you?” he would ask over dinner.

“Your hand looked a bit unsteady with the cayenne.”

I had always laughed it off, attributing it to his unnervingly sharp sense of taste.

But he hadn’t been tasting the food.

He had been watching me from his office, measuring my movements down to the millimeter.

My mind raced back through the last few months.

I thought of the private, quiet moments in the kitchen when I believed I was entirely alone.

The tears I had wiped away while chopping onions, crying over his control.

The quiet phone calls I had made to my sister, whispering about my plans to finally leave him.

He had watched it all.