The next morning, the production crew announced the first task: each couple would collaborate to prepare a breakfast filled with memories for their partner.

On the live stream, the other couples were sweetly discussing what to make.

Only in our corner had a chill settled.

Helen didn’t even glance my way. She walked straight into the kitchen, pulled a carton of juice and a bag of bread from the fridge.

My stomach clenched instantly.

I’m allergic to that juice. Helen knew that.

Back when we were first together, I’d once accidentally drunk some and ended up with acute gastritis. She’d held me all night, crying, blaming herself.

Now, she was handing me that same juice herself.

“Drink it.” Her tone was flat, but it carried a command that brooked no refusal.

I looked at her, my voice rough. “Helen, I—”

“I know you’re allergic.” She cut me off, her eyes devoid of any warmth. “It’s part of the bet. Finish this, and Stephen won’t bother me all day today.”

In that moment, my heart froze solid.

So my pain, my health—in her eyes, they were just bargaining chips for a moment’s peace.

The live chat exploded again.

**[Am I seeing this right? Helen knows Joseph’s allergic to that juice and she’s forcing him to drink it? Is this attempted murder?]**

**[Hey, everyone calling Joseph problematic, wanna explain this? Who’s actually the villain here?]**

**[Did someone put a curse on Helen? Who the hell is this Stephen guy?]**

**[Am I the only one who feels awful for Joseph? The light’s gone from his eyes…]**

I didn’t say another word. Silently, I took the carton, twisted the cap off, and downed it in one go.

The cold liquid slid down my throat, and an immediate, violent cramp seized my stomach.

Fighting back nausea and dizziness, I picked up a slice of bread and forced myself to chew.

Helen stood across from me, watching coldly.

Only after I finished eating did she turn away, pouring herself a glass of hot water as if what had just happened had nothing to do with her.

After breakfast, the task continued.

The crew asked each spouse to write down ten of their partner’s strengths.

Pen and paper in hand, my mind filled with images of Helen.

The slight furrow of her brow when she was focused on work. The way her eyes crinkled into lovely crescents when she smiled. How she was always cold, her hands and feet like ice in winter. Her love for spicy food, even though it always made her eyes water…

My pen moved, writing the first point: **Kind.**

Even though she was cruel to me now, I still remembered how she used to cry secretly over a stray cat.

**Strong.**

**Talented.**

**Has a beautiful smile.**

…

I quickly filled all ten lines. Each one was soaked in memories, in my reluctance to let go.

On the other side, Helen sat before a blank sheet of paper, not moving her pen for a long time.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of her page. It was completely empty.

The live chat filled with taunts.

**[LOL, can’t think of anything? Guess the feelings are really gone.]**

**[Can’t even be bothered to pretend anymore. Helen, just divorce him already. Stop torturing Joseph.]**

**[This is wild. I could list ten of Joseph’s strengths off the top of my head. Handsome, great actor, amazing body…]**

Just then, Helen’s phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, immediately stood up, and walked aside to answer. Her voice held a gentleness I’d never heard before. “Stephen? What’s wrong?”

I don’t know what was said on the other end, but her expression instantly tightened with worry. “Don’t panic, I’m coming right now!”

Hanging up, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door.

Instinctively, I caught her wrist. “Where are you going? We’re still filming.”

She shook me off forcefully, her gaze icy and piercing. “Stephen has a fever. I need to take care of him. Joseph, don’t forget—I owe him my life!”

That line again.

Every time she did anything for Stephen, she used it to shut me up.

Watching her resolute back, my heart spasmed with pain. A coughing fit seized me.

This time, I couldn’t hold back. A mouthful of blood sprayed out, splattering across the white floor.

Helen left in the end.

She didn’t glance back—not even once—before vanishing into the blizzard. The blood I coughed up was quickly buried under fresh snow, as though nothing had happened at all.

The production crew rushed over, their faces etched with concern. “Mr. Joseph, are you all right? Should we take you to the hospital?”

I waved them off, forcing a pale smile. “It’s fine. Just an old issue.”

I couldn’t go to the hospital. If I did, my condition would be exposed, and I refused to win even a shred of Helen’s sympathy that way. That wouldn’t be love—only pity. And Joseph doesn’t need pity. Not even if I’m dying.

With Helen gone, the rest of the recording ground to a halt. I sat alone in the empty cabin, watching the heavy snow fall outside. Time seemed to stretch endlessly.

My phone buzzed with countless private messages from fans.

【Joseph, we all know you were framed!】

【She’s not worth it! Get out of there!】

【Please take care of yourself. We’ll always support you!】

Reading their kind words, my eyes grew warm. For three years, while the whole internet cursed my name, they were the ones who stood by me—believing in me, supporting me, without ever asking why.

I started typing a reply, then deleted it. I couldn’t tell them the truth, because I knew exactly what kind of storm would break over Helen if it ever came out.

I’ve loved her for nine years. Even if that love has twisted into something unrecognizable, I still can’t bear to see her hurt. Perhaps this was my last act of gentleness toward her.

Helen didn’t return until evening. She carried the faint scent of antiseptic, exhaustion written plainly across her face.

“How is Stephen?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

She paused, as if surprised I’d ask about him. “His fever broke,” she replied flatly, shrugging off her coat to reveal a beautiful starry-night gown underneath.

My breath caught.

That dress—I’d commissioned it from France last year for her birthday. One of a kind, obscenely expensive. When I gave it to her, she’d said, “It’s too flashy. I don’t like it,” and tossed it into the closet without a second glance. I never thought she’d wear it.

I just never imagined she’d wear it today. Not for me. For another man.

“Today…” I forced the words out, my heart feeling flayed alive, “is Stephen’s birthday?”

Helen didn’t deny it. Her silence was confirmation enough.

And then I remembered—years ago, when we were still deeply in love, we took a trip to an island together. That night, beneath a sky full of stars, she leaned against me and whispered a wish: “Joseph, when our ninth anniversary comes, let’s come back here. You’ll watch the stars with me while I wear a starry dress, okay?”

I’d smiled and promised, “Okay.”

So she did remember that promise. She just gave it to someone else.

And our ninth anniversary… is in three days.