Chapter 2

For five consecutive days, Keith didn't come home.

But his mistress, as if given silent permission, messaged and sent videos to me right on schedule.

"He said I'm the kind of person he really wants."

"He said he's been tired of a homebody like you for ages."

"He's not coming back again tonight. Aren't you lonely sleeping alone?"

I didn't reply to a single one.

I just took my medication on time, had my regular check-ups, slept soundly, and instructed my assistant to categorize and archive all her screenshots.

On the sixth night, Keith called me.

I was at the hospital then, having just finished a series of tests, sitting on a bench in the hallway, waiting for the results.

His voice on the phone was hoarse, tinged with the breathlessness of overindulgence.

"Amelia," he called my name. "Someone's been snapping pictures of Chloe and me lately. There's an interview tomorrow; I need you to come to the office and help her clear things up."

I was silent for two seconds.

"Clear what up?"

"Just say it was all a misunderstanding, that she's just a student I'm sponsoring, and you were there too," he paused. "You know, she's young; she can't handle all this public scrutiny."

I looked down at the needle marks on the back of my hand that hadn't quite faded.

"Okay," I said.

A clear sigh of relief came from the other end.

"You're always so understanding," his tone softened. "How about I come home tonight and spend some time with you? It's been a while since we..."

"I'm not really available these past couple of days," I cut him off, lowering my gaze. "My period."

The phone line went quiet for a moment.

"...Alright." He sounded a bit annoyed but quickly returned to his coaxing tone. "Well, get some sleep then, and don't overthink things."

After hanging up, I looked at the darkened screen and suddenly felt like laughing.

He thought I was saving myself for him.

He had no idea I simply found him disgusting.

The next day's interview was scheduled in the lobby of the Hayes Corp. building.

The media turned out in full force, a flurry of cameras and microphones aimed at us, the "model couple."

I linked my arm through Keith's, my makeup flawless, my smile gentle and poised.

When asked about the rumors, he instinctively glanced at me.

I took the microphone from him.

"This has all been a misunderstanding," I said, my smile practiced and calm. "Ms. Davis is a student my husband sponsors. She's been unwell, and he's shown her appropriate kindness. A few photos were taken out of context and given a rather dramatic interpretation. I trust we can all now put this to rest."

Someone from the crowd pressed on, "Mrs. Hayes, are you truly not bothered at all?"

I turned my head to look at Keith, my eyes full of devotion and trust.

"Of course, I trust him."

At that moment, his grip on my wrist noticeably tightened.

But halfway through the interview, his phone buzzed with a message.

Keith's face changed almost instantly.

He stood up, not even sparing me a glance.

"My apologies, something urgent just came up." He said this to the host and was already turning to leave.

I remained seated, still holding the microphone.

The media erupted in a stir.

Someone loudly asked, "Mr. Hayes, is it about Ms. Davis? We heard she was hospitalized?"

His steps faltered for a second, then he walked out without looking back.

I sat there alone, in the brightest spotlight, cleaning up his mess, continuing to play the part of the devoted wife.

Afterward, Ryan, my assistant, cautiously asked, "Mrs. Hayes, are you alright?"

I stood up, straightened my dress, and smiled.

"I'm perfectly fine."

And I truly was.

Because I knew he had just pushed me one step closer to the finish line.

That night, he didn't come home.

He only sent me a message: "Her fever's really high. I'm at the hospital. You go to sleep first."

I replied with a single word: "Okay."

Then, I thought for a moment and sent another message: "My mom isn't feeling too well. I need to go back to my parents' place tomorrow for about a month."

"Want me to come with you?"

"It's nothing serious, I can handle it."

"Okay."

I sent the message, set my phone aside with a quiet exhale, and turned my attention to the newly arrived report on my desk.

Its conclusion was stark: Incubation period complete. The virus is now transmissible.