Chapter 2

Clara's POV

After coming back from that apartment, I caught the scent of Miki’s perfume on Ethan’s collar for the first time.

Miki was the name of his mistress.

The sweet fragrance clung to his shirt and mingled with his warm breath whenever he leaned in to hold me.

Before, I only found the scent vaguely familiar. Now, every breath of it felt like someone whispering in my ear, reminding me that this man had just walked out of another woman's bed.

Yet, Ethan was still tender to me.

In the morning, he made oatmeal from scratch, sitting by the bed and feeding me spoonful by spoonful. "Does your stomach still hurt? Do you want me to take you to the clinic?"

I shook my head. "No need."

"You were sick for so many years, and your body still hasn't fully bounced back. Stop pushing yourself."

When he said that, the concern in his eyes didn't even look fake.

His kindness toward me was real.

His betrayal was just as real.

And that was the cruellest part.

I had survived the darkest, most agonizing days of my illness clinging to those tiny details, treating his memory of my pill dosages and his awareness of my slightest wince as the reasons I had to stay alive.

Ethan’s patience could be copied and pasted. His warm soup could be poured into two separate thermoses. Even his promises didn't need to be kept for just one person.

I couldn't even give myself the clean relief of saying he didn't care about me at all.

Because he would still panic when I was in pain, and then turn around and offer that exact same tenderness to another woman.

Love mixed with lies is far more vicious than cold indifference; it poisons every precious memory until you doubt if any of it ever happened.

Later that evening, Ethan simmered a pot of soup on the stove.

As the savory aroma filled the apartment, his phone buzzed.

He picked it up and stepped onto the balcony, but the sliding glass door didn't close all the way.

I couldn't hear what Miki was saying on the other end, but I heard Ethan’s reply without a single trace of hesitation: "What does it matter even if she finds out? She almost died for me—she's so obsessed she'd never leave. Taking care of her now is just an obligation. You and the baby are the future I actually want."

My desperate fight to stay alive had become, in his eyes, the undeniable proof that I could never walk away.

Over a decade of devotion hadn't earned his respect. It had only bought his complete disregard whenever he chose to hurt me.

Then, his voice softened into a gentle murmur: "If the baby's crying, just hold him for a bit. I’m heading over right now."

He came back inside, clicked off the stove, and poured the entire pot of soup into an insulated container. "A sudden meeting came up at the office. Don't wait up for me tonight."

I handed him his overcoat, reminding him gently like I had done a thousand times before, "Don't drink too much."

Ethan kissed my forehead, picked up the soup, and walked out the door.

Three days later, stepping out of the bank, I was caught in a freezing downpour.

Not long after getting home, I developed a burning fever. When Ethan felt my scorching forehead, his brows knitted tightly together.

In that brief instant, a pathetic spark of hope flickered inside me.

I thought that, at least for tonight, he might stay.

Right on cue, his phone rang.

Ethan stepped onto the balcony, keeping his voice down to soothe the caller. "Her fever is really high, I can't leave right now. Try to put the baby to sleep first, and I’ll come by later."

I closed my eyes, a miserable sense of relief washing over my heart.

Yet barely two minutes later, Ethan rushed back into the room to grab his coat. "The baby won't stop crying over there. I have to make a quick run. Try to sleep, I’ll be back first thing in the morning."

I stared at him for a long time before quietly whispering, "Drive safe."

Once the front door clicked shut, the silence in the apartment was deafening, broken only by my ragged, feverish breathing.

Turns out, his sweet excuses weren't because he couldn't bear to leave me. It was simply because Miki hadn't pressed him hard enough yet.

Ethan never felt torn between two women.

Miki was the priority he would drop everything to run to, while I was just the background figure who was expected to stay put and wait for him, no matter how many times I was abandoned.

I had endured years of brutal medical treatments, yet tonight, I couldn't even keep him by my side for two measly hours.

Years ago, during a severe stomach flare-up, Ethan had stayed up all night in a cramped kitchen trying to learn how to cook for me. The old barista at the corner shop always kept a warm drink ready, smiling as he said, "Waiting for your husband to pick you up?"

I had survived the most agonizing seasons of my life by clinging to those memories, believing that kind of devotion belonged solely to me.

But the moment Ethan poured that very same soup for another woman, those memories were no longer my lifeline.

That night, my fever broke, and with it, every last lingering trace of wishful thinking vanished.

The next day, more jewelry was handed over to my broker, and my savings were transferred in batches into a secret, untraceable account.

I remained sweet and docile, still asking him if he was tired whenever he walked through the door.

Only the rising balance in that hidden account spoke the truth: with every zero added, I was one step further away from this man.

His cold words, *she'd never leave*, still echoed in my ears.

And I had already begun counting down the final days of our marriage.