Chapter 744

My temper flared so quickly that even Ashton looked thrown off.

After dinner, we ended up in a silent standoff that lasted for hours, right until it was time for bed.

But I stayed seated at my dressing table, staring at my reflection with a stony face. I didn’t feel the slightest urge to go to sleep.

Had I really become a frumpy housewife?

I looked closely at myself in the mirror. My skin was still fair, and though my face was rounder than before, it wasn’t bad. My chest had filled out more, but that was inevitable after childbirth. The real problem was my waist.

Ashton stood behind me, holding our daughter, who had woken up again.

The moment his hand landed on my shoulder, I slapped it away.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, my palm still stinging from how hard I’d hit him.

“If I don’t touch you, who else am I supposed to touch?”

“Touch whoever you want. I’m just a frumpy housewife who doesn’t deserve the great Mr. Laurent,” I said, twisting to shake off his hand.

His reflection disappeared from the mirror. I thought he’d left, but a moment later, he was back, Minnie gone from his arms. In one quick movement, he pulled me onto his lap, settling himself on the stool in front of my dressing table.

I tried to wriggle away, but the more I struggled, the tighter his arms locked around me.

Annoyed at how easily he overpowered me, I eventually gave up and went limp, sulking in silence.

Ashton sighed and met my eyes in the mirror. “Look at you. How could anyone call such a pretty face a frumpy housewife?”

“You said it again,” I glared at him.

“All right, you’re not a frump.” He caught himself halfway through the sentence, wisely swallowing the last two words. Then he softened his tone. “Mira, after everything we’ve been through, do you really think I’d ever look down on you?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I shot back immediately.

Then I realized how that sounded.

I corrected quickly, “If anyone’s allowed to look down on anyone, it’s me looking down on you, old man.”

Ashton’s face darkened a little.

He was seven years older than me, after all.

After a long sigh, he said, “Then we’re perfectly matched. The old man and the frumpy housewife.”

The truth was, ever since giving birth, I’d been a little insecure. Especially with how distracted he’d seemed lately. That small unease had been sitting there, waiting for a spark.

Now it had flared up all at once.

I turned my head to look at him properly and asked, more hurt than angry, “Be honest. Since I had the babies, have I gotten uglier?”

“Of course not,” he said without a pause. “Why would you even think that?”

I was sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms, his chest broad and solid behind me. His hands held me firmly, his eyes fixed on my reflection with a gaze that could melt anyone.

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