Chapter 3

Pain dragged me back from unconsciousness.

The pungent smell of disinfectant needles pricked my brain, and the bright white light overhead made my eyes ache.

I tried to raise my hand to shield them, but I tugged at the IV needle on my hand, sucking in a sharp breath from the pain.

"You're awake."

The nurse, changing my dressing, sighed with relief when she saw my eyes open. "Who has such a grudge against you? Two bottles to the head, forty-plus stitches."

I instinctively touched my bandaged forehead.

My throat was as dry as sandpaper. "Where's the person who brought me here?"

"You mean your friend, Maya?"

The nurse said, tidying her supply tray. "She stayed with you all night, but had an emergency at her company this morning. She told me to let you know she hired a caregiver for you."

I froze.

So, not even Adrian brought me to the hospital.

Where was he?

I reached for my phone. My fingertips had barely touched the screen when a new post popped up.

From Seraphina.

[He's still so easy to coax.]

In the video, Seraphina held out her hand, her voice sweet and娇 as she pouted, "Look, I cut my pinky when I smashed the bottle."

The camera shifted. Adrian was half-crouching in front of her.

His long fingers held a band-aid, gently applying it to her fingertip.

Then, he lowered his head, pressing a suppressed kiss to her finger, whispering, "Now it won't hurt."

I stared at the screen.

The wound on my head felt as if it had been torn open again, someone stabbing it with a knife and then pouring salt in.

My hand trembled with pain.

I took a deep breath and dialed the police.

"Hello, I'd like to report an incident."

That night, Adrian pushed open my hospital room door.

He wore a black trench coat, his eyes as cold as carved ice, but a hint of anger simmered beneath. "You called the police? Said Seraphina intentionally harmed you?"

"Yes." I looked up at him, my voice calm. "Intentional assault. That's enough to press charges, isn't it?"

He frowned, his voice deep. "She hit you in a fit of impulse, it was wrong of her. But I've already dealt with her, so let's just drop it."

"Dealt with her?" I sneered. "How did you 'deal with her'?"

"She's a bit wild. I told her not to leave the house for three days."

His tone was flat, as if it were an insignificant matter.

I stared, then burst out laughing.

I laughed so hard it tugged at my stitches, making tears well up in my eyes. "I got over forty stitches, and you grounded her for three days? Adrian, is that a punishment, or are you just protecting her, afraid I'd go after her?"

His eyes darkened. "What are you talking about? Of course it's a punishment."

"I've already spoken to the police. The case is withdrawn."

He paused, then continued, "You don't need to call them again. No one in this city will take the case."

I gripped the bedsheets, my nails practically digging into my flesh.

Words surged like a tide, but finally, only one question squeezed out: "Adrian, I chased you for five years, what do you even see me as?"

"If you didn't care about me, why did you marry me in the first place?"

I stared at him, my eyes burning.

His frown deepened. "Who says I don't care about you?"

He paused, his voice still cold. "Alright, let's just drop this. I'll stay here with you for a few days, and after you're discharged, I'll get you something. Stop making a fuss."

He spoke as if he were bestowing some great favor.

I suddenly found it ridiculous.

Yes, it was always me chasing after him, telling him I loved him, wanting to marry him, wanting to be close to him.

When had he ever taken the initiative?

Now he was willing to stay with me—how was that not a gift?