Chapter 4

Emma came home in the early hours of the morning.

I was lying in bed, not really asleep.

Just staring into the darkness.

Until Emma snuggled into my arms.

"Still awake?"

She leaned up to kiss me but missed.

After a moment's pause, she hugged me, suppressing her temper, "Who upset you? I'll take care of them, okay?"

"Emma."

"Hmm."

The room was so dark I couldn't see her face.

But I could smell the gardenia scent on her.

"Let's break up."

Emma's body stiffened, then she let go and rolled away, "What's wrong now?"

She rubbed her temples impatiently, "We're not kids anymore, why are you being so sensitive?"

"Break up?" She laughed, "James, you're not young anymore. Who would want to marry a man who smokes, drinks, has tattoos, and does dirty work?"

My chest ached.

I pressed hard against my heart, but couldn't suppress the sharp pain.

Last year when I had stitches in my arm, I was allergic to anesthesia. Twelve stitches, sewn without numbing, and I didn't make a sound.

But Emma's few honest words, fueled by alcohol, brought tears to my eyes.

"Emma," I couldn't help but want to ask her, "If I had a terminal illness, would you—"

"James."

She cut me off, her brow furrowed with impatience, "Stop asking such pointless questions."

"If you really had a terminal illness, would you want me to commit suicide with you?"

She rubbed her forehead, "I'm busy with the wedding and business lately. I don't have the energy to coddle you, so stop being dramatic."

As she spoke, her phone suddenly rang.

Emma irritably hung up.

But the caller persisted.

After a few back-and-forths, Emma got out of bed with her phone, "What is it?"

The boy's voice came through the receiver, indistinct.

Emma sighed, "What a hassle."

Despite her words, she hurriedly left the room.

"There's a problem with the business, I need to go deal with it."

"Go to sleep, don't wait up for me."