Chapter 2

"This wheelchair was prepared for George. You can't—"

Eva glanced at me like she was granting charity, then scolded the nurse: "Can't you see who the real patient is? He's a doctor—what could possibly be wrong with him? If you keep blocking us, I'll report your hospital for discrimination, refusing emergency care, and competing with patients for resources!"

Watching how nervously she protected Chris, I couldn't remember the last time she'd defended me like that.

The atmosphere was cold as iron.

Eva forcefully wheeled the chair away.

The young nurse looked at me pleadingly. I said flatly, "It's fine. Not gonna die yet."

Just after I'd had my wound treated, Eva sent someone with something.

There was even a note in her handwriting attached: *[George, I'm sorry. Chris just lost a child and his emotions aren't stable. Please be understanding. After all, I agreed to remove the baby for your sake.]* *[Chris isn't feeling well right now. I need to stay with him. I'll come back later.]*

I opened the container—it was a bowl of century egg and pork congee.

I let out a bitter smile. She'd actually forgotten I was allergic to century eggs.

I remembered once accidentally eating century eggs—my whole body broke out in hives, my breathing grew rapid, I nearly suffocated.

When she saw me like that, her eyes had turned red with panic. She'd taken me to the hospital overnight, kneeling before the doctor and crying like a child.

Just a few short years.

After Chris returned to the country, everything changed.

I returned to our cold, empty home and slowly began sorting through our belongings.

Looking through the letters she'd once written me—page after page of burning, passionate words.

My heart trembled uncontrollably.

I thought if she came home tonight and properly apologized, I wouldn't need to be so ruthless.

Divorce would be enough. After all, I could support myself.

I waited for her in the living room all night.

She never came back.

It wasn't until the next day that I saw Chris's Instagram.

His latest post was a grid of nine photos, centered on a brand-new Porsche.

The caption read: "Gift from Eva. She said it was to make up for aborting our child. Since her attitude is so sincere, I forgive her."

In the photos, his face was pressed against Eva's, their smiles glaring.

The comments section had exploded.

Mutual friends who recognized Eva were condemning Chris as a homewrecker.

And another user with an obvious Eva profile picture replied below, her words fierce and certain: "He's not the other man. The unloved one is the other man. If you keep spouting nonsense, I don't mind reporting you to the police."

After spending the entire night away, she had thoroughly extinguished the last bit of warmth remaining in my heart.

I calmly organized my resignation letter and got up to head to the hospital.

Just as I reached the hospital entrance, I ran into Eva approaching with a flushed face.

She didn't even notice the gauze wrapped around the back of my head before launching into an interrogation.

"Did you hire someone to make that Instagram post yesterday? Because of your stunt, everyone's attacking Chris now! I want you to apologize to him immediately!"

She shoved an Instagram post full of hate comments in my face.

Looking at her, I felt only absurdity.

That bragging post was clearly something Chris himself had posted to Instagram for attention.

Now that it had sparked outrage, it had become my fault.

Before, when colleagues stood up for me, Eva would show up at the hospital every day to make scenes—cursing them out like a shrew in public, even spreading sexual rumors about a male colleague that caused problems in his marriage.

Over time, no one dared speak up for me anymore.

Who would dare meddle now?

A self-mocking smile tugged at my lips.

"You should go ask him yourself. After all, who else could log into his account?"

She seemed suddenly enlightened and froze.

She'd only taken a few steps when she turned back.

"You're still angry? Just because I didn't come home last night?"

I said nothing.

Her tone suddenly softened, taking on a familiar cadence.

"I didn't want to wake you, so I roughed it outside for the night. Don't misunderstand. You work so hard normally—if I'd come back that late, you definitely wouldn't have slept well. I felt bad for you."

The first time she'd said this, I'd been overwhelmingly moved.

But ever since I discovered that the nights she claimed she "didn't want to wake me" were actually spent by Chris's mother's hospital bed, too afraid Chris would get tired—willing to suffer herself, using her "privileged status" to personally care for them night after night—these words had become nothing but mockery.

After a long silence, she finally noticed the gauze on my forehead.

Her eyes flickered. Just as she was about to speak, her phone rang sharply in her pocket.

She glanced at the screen, her expression changing.

"Chris? Don't panic, I'll be right there!"

She didn't even finish a complete sentence to me before clutching her phone and rushing off.

I'd thought she might actually be willing to believe me.

But shortly after she left, I saw Chris's Instagram post: "Thanks to Eva for the villa gift. She told me not to worry about bad people, and I'm obediently listening."

I clicked on his profile, deleted and blocked him. It didn't matter anymore.