Chapter 4

In our third year of marriage, Damien started his own business.

He founded a tech company, and with the clients he had accumulated from his previous job, the company took off.

Suddenly, our life became luxurious. We moved into a new villa, bought a million-dollar car, and everything we wore and used was top-tier.

But at the same time, he came home later and later, sometimes not coming home at all.

I would sometimes wait for him, sometimes not. Damien still treated me well, except for one thing—he insisted that I quit my job.

He said he had earned enough money for both of us to live comfortably for the rest of our lives, and he didn’t want me to work anymore.

I knew the real reason. He felt embarrassed by my low income compared to the wives of his business partners and friends. Most of them were either daughters of well-established families or women as successful as their husbands, while I was working a job that paid only slightly above the average wage.

Damien was a man of pride, so he asked me to stop working and become a full-time housewife.

I agreed.

Just as I hadn’t told him about the money my mother left for me, I also didn’t tell him that the company I worked for was one I had started with my best friend during our senior year.

The startup had been exhausting, and that’s when my liver disease relapsed, requiring a transplant to survive.

My best friend had been terrified when she saw my condition. She cried and swore never to let me overwork myself again. She had hoped I could stay home and just wait for the dividends, but I couldn’t sit idle, so I took a part-time job to pass the time.

Truth be told, I had already achieved financial freedom long before Damien.

But I understood him. He didn’t want me to be too successful or independent, so I never told him the full truth.

Since he wanted me to be a stay-at-home wife, I did as he wished. I quit my job and spent my days reading books and tending to the flowers.

I read a lot of books on marriage.

They all said that women shouldn’t be too dominant; that’s the key to a lasting marriage.

I thought I was doing well.

On our third wedding anniversary, Damien gave me a diamond ring the size of a pigeon’s egg.

Holding me close, he said, “Baby, thank you for everything these years.”

He removed the small diamond ring he gave me when we got married, saying, “I didn’t have money back then, so I could only give you a small diamond ring. But I promised myself, once I had money, I’d buy you the biggest one.”

He threw the small diamond ring into the trash can and slid the large diamond ring onto my finger.

“Baby, I’ve made it.”

The ring was beautiful, but it was too big, uncomfortable, and a bit inconvenient. I still preferred the small diamond ring.

But I knew I couldn’t pick it up from the trash.

He wouldn’t like it, and we’d argue.

Yes, as Damien made more money, his temper grew worse. Even the smallest issues could set him off, and after we fought, he would apologize and tell me it was just the pressure from work.

I understood him.

After all, my father had been the same way.

Perhaps all men were like this.

Suddenly, Damien kissed me wildly, his kisses more intense and urgent than usual. Before, he was always tender and affectionate.

As he kissed me, he mumbled, “Baby, let’s have a child.”

“I have money now.”

I didn’t directly refuse him. His excitement made me feel uneasy, but I didn’t speak up, and he carried me to bed.

Damien, you still don’t know. It’s not because you don’t have money that I don’t want a child.

Later that night, Damien slept deeply, and I stared at his handsome face, just like it was back in college.

The pigeon egg-sized ring was so large that it was causing the fingers next to it to turn slightly red.

I got out of bed to take a shower, found a box, and carefully placed the large diamond ring inside. Then, I picked up the small diamond ring from the trash.

But I also found a receipt for a necklace.

It was dated a month ago.

I was certain he hadn’t given me a necklace.

I glanced at Damien’s phone, which was resting by the pillow. I knew the password, and he knew mine.

I thought about checking, but in the end, I didn’t.

I felt a little scared.

Was history about to repeat itself?