Julian stares at me for a few moments, then gives a minute nod. “All right.”

Before he has a chance to say anything more, Ana walks into the room, carrying our next course—fish with rice and beans. Seeing my nearly untouched soup, she frowns. “You don’t like the soup, Nora?”

“No, it’s delicious,” I lie. “I’m just not that hungry and wanted to save room for the main course.”

Ana gives me a concerned look, but clears off our dishes without further comment. My appetite has been unpredictable since our return, so this is not the first time I’ve left a meal untouched. I haven’t weighed myself, but I think I’ve lost at least a couple of pounds in recent weeks—which is not necessarily a good thing in my case.

Julian frowns also, but doesn’t say anything as I start playing with the rice on my plate. I really, really don’t want food right now, but I force myself to pick up a forkful and put it in my mouth. The rice also tastes too rich, but I determinedly chew and swallow, not wanting to have Julian focus on my lack of eating.

I have something more important to discuss with him.

As soon as Ana leaves the room, I put my fork down and look at my husband. “I got another message,” I say quietly.

Julian’s jaw tightens. “I know.”

“You’re monitoring my email now?” My stomach roils again, this time with a mix of nausea and anger. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, given the trackers still implanted in my body, but something about this casual invasion of privacy really upsets me.

“Of course.” He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic or remorseful. “I figured he might contact you again.”

I inhale slowly, reminding myself that arguing about this is futile. “Then you know Peter won’t leave us alone until you give him that list,” I say, as calmly as I can manage. “Somehow he knows that you got it from Frank last week. His message said, ‘It’s time to remember your promise.’ He won’t go away, Julian.”

“If he keeps harassing you via email, I’ll make sure he goes away for good.” Julian’s tone hardens. “He knows better than to try to get to me through you.”

“He saved your life and my life,” I remind him for the dozenth time. “I know you’re mad that he disobeyed your orders, but if he hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

“And you wouldn’t be having these nightmares and panic attacks.” Julian’s sensuous lips flatten. “It’s been six weeks, Nora, and you haven’t gotten any better. You barely sleep, hardly eat, and I can’t remember the last time you went for a run. He should’ve never put you in that kind of danger—”

“He did what was necessary!” Slapping my palms on the table, I rise to my feet, no longer able to sit still. “You think I’d be feeling better if you died? You think I wouldn’t have nightmares if Majid mailed us your body in pieces? My fucked-up head is not Peter’s fault, so stop blaming him for this mess! I promised him that list, and I want to give it to him!” By the time I get to the last sentence, I’m full-on yelling, too angry to care about Julian’s temper.

He stares at me, his eyes narrowed. “Sit down, Nora.” His voice is dangerously soft. “Now.”

“Or what?” I challenge, feeling uncharacteristically reckless. “Or what, Julian?”

“Do you really want to go there, my pet?” he asks in that same soft tone. When I don’t respond, he points at my chair. “Sit down and finish the meal Ana prepared for you.”

I hold his gaze for a few more seconds, not wanting to give in, but then I lower myself back into my chair. The surge of defiant anger that came upon me so suddenly is gone, leaving me drained and wanting to cry. I hate the fact that Julian can win a fight so easily, that I’m still not fearless enough to test his limits.

Not over something as minor as finishing a meal, at least.

If I’m going to defy him, it will be over something that matters.

Dropping my gaze to my plate, I pick up my fork and spear a piece of fish, trying to ignore my growing queasiness. My stomach churns with every bite, but I persist until I finish nearly half of my portion. Julian, in the meantime, polishes off everything on his plate, his appetite obviously unaffected by our argument.

“Dessert? Tea? Coffee?” Ana asks when she comes back to clear off our plates, and I mutely shake my head, not wanting to prolong the ordeal of this tense meal.

“I’ll pass too, thanks, Ana,” Julian says politely. “Everything was wonderful, as usual.”

Ana beams at him, clearly pleased. I’ve noticed that Julian has made it a point to praise her more often since our return—that in general, his manner toward her is slightly warmer these days. I don’t know what caused the change, but I know Ana appreciates it. Rosa told me the housekeeper has been all but dancing on air in recent weeks.

As Ana begins clearing off the table, Julian gets up and walks around to offer me his arm. I loop my hand through the crook of his elbow, and we head upstairs in silence. As we walk, my heart starts beating faster and my queasiness intensifies.

Tonight’s argument only confirms what I have known for a while: Julian is never going to see reason on the issue of Peter’s list. If I’m to keep my promise, I will have to take matters into my own hands and brave the consequences of my husband’s displeasure.

Even if the thought of that literally makes me sick.