Chapter 3

My eyes widened in shock. This woman was Mark's stepmother?

She didn't seem bothered in the slightest. In fact, she leaned in closer, laughing softly.

"So what? Just because I married your father, you're holding a grudge against me?"

Mark ignored her and pulled me inside.

His stepmother's name was Elena. She looked surprisingly young, with an undeniably stunning figure.

While Elena was in the kitchen cutting fruit, I leaned close to Mark and whispered, "How old is your stepmother? She looks so young."

Mark didn't care. Without taking his eyes off his phone, he tossed out, "Forty-five."

Any lingering discomfort from her physical touch with Mark vanished. Eager to learn her skincare secrets, I trotted into the kitchen.

"Um, Elena," I said, looking at her youthful face. "Do you need any help?"

"Do I look that old?" Elena sliced the fruit with effortless grace, letting a strand of hair fall over her cheek as she smiled.

"Not at all," I shook my head. "I honestly thought you were our age."

"Ha, I actually am your age. You can just call me Elena."

After finishing the fruit, Elena rinsed her hands and picked up the platter to carry it out.

I wanted to ask more, but Mark was already standing in the doorway, staring at us with an irritated scowl.

Elena chuckled, brushing past Mark with the platter, her voice dripping with sweetness.

"There are things Mark will tell you himself... once you're married."

Mark's father hadn't arrived home yet, and the tension between Mark and his stepmother was thick. He followed her into her bedroom, and an argument immediately erupted. Sitting nearby, I could hear Elena hurling insults, while Mark mostly took the brunt of it.

Finally, the sound of something shattering echoed through the hall. I rushed over to break it up, but Mark was already walking out of the bedroom.

His clothes and hair were slightly disheveled. Looking exhausted, he said,

"She has bipolar disorder. She's calmed down now. Don't disturb her."

I nodded and followed Mark into his room.

He thought I didn't notice, but there was a faint trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

Soon after, Mark took me to the courthouse to get our marriage license. Surrounded by our friends, we went to a private karaoke lounge that night for an afterparty.

They called it our "final bachelor party."

Everyone let loose. Out of consideration for my pregnancy, Mark used my nausea as an excuse to down drinks on my behalf.

His face was flushed, clearly tipsy.

"I need to take this call." Mark kissed my forehead affectionately, patted my head, and stepped out of the room.

Five minutes passed, and Mark hadn't returned.

His childhood friend, completely smashed, stumbled back from the restroom.

"Hey, guess who I just saw outside? Our college queen. Mark's dream girl."

The guys were too drunk to care about my presence, rambling on without a second thought. "Oh, I remember her! Didn't Mark chase her for years? Word is she got married, though. What was her name again?"

"Elena!"

I excused myself to use the restroom and walked out into the corridor.

Near the end of the hallway by the restrooms, Mark and Elena were locked in a passionate, breathless kiss.