Chapter 1

At our seventh-anniversary party, Scarlett shared an intimate, arm-locked toast with her childhood best friend, Christian.

I watched coldly and clapped. Scarlett sneered and mocked me in front of everyone.

"It’s just a harmless game between friends. Why are you so uptight? If Christian and I actually had something going on, you wouldn't even have had the chance to marry me."

She stormed off in anger. That night, Christian updated his Snapchat background to a cozy photo of him and Scarlett holding hands.

If this had happened in the past, I would have rushed to Christian’s house, dragged Scarlett out, and begged her to tell me if she actually loved me.

But this time, I didn't care anymore.

Scarlett didn't come home until the next afternoon.

At the time, I was cleaning up the mess in the backyard.

Yesterday was our seventh wedding anniversary.

She once said, "Everyone talks about the seven-year itch, but I don't believe in that curse."

"For our seventh anniversary, we’re going to invite all our friends and family over. Let’s show them how happy we are."

Because of that single promise, I started preparing three months in advance.

Every day after work, I dragged my exhausted body to baking classes, mixology courses, and learned recipes I had never cooked before.

Yet, the anniversary party I so painstakingly prepared became a stage for her and Christian to flirt.

She even stayed out all night for him.

"What happened to your hand?"

Scarlett noticed the cut on my index finger and asked.

I looked down. "Cut it yesterday while prepping the food."

Scarlett scoffed. "Can't even handle a simple knife. Seriously, is there anything you can do right?"

The old me couldn't stand being imperfect in her eyes.

A single put-down from her would have started a thirty-minute argument, followed by my near-pathological obsession with proving myself to her.

But now, even saying half a word felt like too much effort.

Maybe realizing I was upset, Scarlett leaned down and grabbed my hand. "Let me do it."

I pulled away from her touch. She stubbornly reached out again, trying to grab me.

As we struggled, I tripped over a stool and fell.

She laughed. "So clumsy."

I didn't say anything. Instead, my stomach spasmed violently, and I coughed up a splash of blood. Only then did she realize something was seriously wrong.

Scarlett quickly pulled me up. "What's wrong? We need to go to the hospital!"

My stomach was burning like hell. I had a bad feeling, so I didn't refuse.

When we arrived at the hospital lobby, we immediately ran into Christian.

He looked pale and weak, leaning into Scarlett’s arms. "Scarlett, my stomach hurts so bad. My chronic ulcer is acting up again."

Scarlett held him tightly and turned to me. "You probably just ate something bad and got a little nauseous. It’s no big deal. Just go grab a number and wait in line yourself. Christian’s condition is serious, and I’m worried. I need to take him to the ER."

I nodded. "Okay. Got it."

She froze, staring at me with a bizarre expression.

"You're not angry?"

I found it amusing.

Why should I be angry?

Was it because I didn't throw a massive tantrum like I used to?

But now, I had zero interest.

Whatever she and Christian did had nothing to do with me anymore.

"If there's nothing else, I'll head in."

I turned and walked away. I heard her footsteps heading in the opposite direction. I didn't look back.

Later, I started coughing up more and more blood. A triage nurse noticed me and rushed me into the emergency room.

Years of drinking heavy liquor at corporate networking events to secure contracts had finally caught up to me. I had a ruptured stomach ulcer.

The doctor asked, "Where is your family? You need emergency surgery for a stomach perforation. They need to sign the consent form."

I stared blankly, clutching my throbbing chest. "I don't have any family here."

I signed the form myself and wheeled myself into the operating room.

From the anesthesia to the surgery, and finally to when I woke up, a full three hours passed. Scarlett never called or texted once.

That evening, when Scarlett finally came home, I was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

She glanced at the dark kitchen. "Why didn't you make dinner?"