I'm Brian Locke.

The day Sophia Reed and I got married, Stella Shaw cornered her three times.

I stood in the corner of the banquet hall, watching through the crowd as Stella Shaw grabbed her wrist, his mouth moving close to her ear. Sophia's expression went from annoyance to sneering disdain. Finally, she pushed him away and walked toward me, her dress brushing the roses in the hallway, leaving a trail of perfume.

Later, I pieced together what Stella Shaw had said from gossip-he'd called me too stiff, said I must be boring in bed, that Sophia needed "a real fire."

"Who's the fire? You?" she'd shot back, her voice dripping with contempt.

That reckless bastard Stella Shaw had winked and smiled, not answering directly. Instead, he'd left a bet: "Shea, I bet you two will split in five years. If I win, give me a chance first."

I'd been adjusting my tie, listening to all this, my fingers tightening unconsciously. Sophia walked up to me, the disdain for Stella Shaw still in her eyes. She looked up at me, her gaze brighter than the chandeliers: "Ignore him. We'll be fine."

I grunted in response. I didn't tell her that Stella Shaw's line-"I'm still single, so yeah, I mean it"-had stung like a tiny needle.

Five years later, I was peeling an apple for Joanne Morgan when Sophia called.

Her voice came through the phone, cold and hard-a tone I'd never heard before: "I'll divorce you in a month. But I don't want love. I just need a guy to mess around with for a while-let loose."

Stella Shaw's loud laugh came through the line, his pride obvious even over the static: "Perfect! Baby, I'm in!"

My hand froze mid-peel. The strip of apple skin broke. Joanne Morgan leaned over, pressing her hand gently on mine: "Brian Locke, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." I handed her the peeled apple. The phone screen was still lit, Sophia Reed's name glowing like a piece of ice, making my fingers tingle.

The next day was the anniversary of Sophia's mother's death.

I was flipping through documents in the hospital room when Joanne Morgan, scrolling through sofas on her phone, leaned over, her voice soft: "Brian Locke, which sofa do you think fits better in the villa you gave me? Sit and try one-help me decide."

My phone suddenly vibrated. Seeing "Sophia Reed" flash on the screen made me frown. When I answered, her voice was like ice: "Your parents are at my place acting crazy. Come get them right now-it's my mom's death anniversary!"

I looked at the iced milk tea in Joanne Morgan's hand and said without thinking: "I can't... leave the hospital right now."

"Brian Locke~ Which sofa do you think fits better in the villa you gave me? Sit and try one-help me decide." Joanne Morgan's voice drifted into the receiver, deliberately sweet and coquettish.

I noticed the lipstick stain on her straw, took the milk tea away: "You shouldn't have cold drinks right now."

As soon as I spoke, the line went dead-Sophia had hung up.

I stood there holding the phone. Joanne Morgan tugged at my sleeve timidly: "Did I say something wrong? Did I make Ms. Jade angry?"

"It's not your fault." I stuffed the phone in my pocket, but an odd restlessness stirred in me.

Fifteen minutes later, I pushed open the door of our house and found Sophia swinging a baseball bat at the dressing room mirror.

Glass shards flew. Her profile was cold as jade, sweat sticking stray hairs to her forehead. Margaret Locke screamed beside her, pointing at the mess: "My jewelry! My bags!"

"Are you done throwing a tantrum?" I rushed over and grabbed her wrist. She was surprisingly strong- the bat hit the floor with a dull thud.

Sophia panted, looking up at me, bloodshot eyes like a spiderweb: "Finally got free, huh? Showed up pretty fast-less than fifteen minutes."

She wrenched her hand away and turned to leave. Joanne Morgan, who'd followed me without me noticing, peeked in from the door. When she saw Sophia, she hurried to apologize: "I'm so sorry. I held Brian Locke up with something. He didn't mean to ignore you..."

Sophia walked straight ahead. But Joanne Morgan kept saying "sorry" as she stepped back-then suddenly yelped and fell to the floor, clutching her stomach, her face twisted: "Ah... my stomach hurts so bad..."

"Morgan." My heart skipped a beat. I rushed over and lifted her into my arms. As I turned, my elbow accidentally hit Sophia.

It was a light tap, like a feather. But she swayed and dropped to her knees.

The sound of her knees hitting the floor was sickening. She hung her head, her dark hair hiding her face, only her shoulders shaking slightly. Her hands were on the floor, knuckles white.

I frowned at her, a strange irritation rising. Stella Shaw's words popped into my head-Sophia needs a fire. She's wild at heart.

"Are you faking this to frame Morgan? Trying to play the victim?" I couldn't help but snap, my voice cold as ice.

Margaret Locke snickered: "Yeah, stop pretending!"

Sophia slowly lifted her head. Her forehead was covered in sweat, her lips as white as paper. She didn't look at me-instead, she turned to Margaret, tugging at her mouth in what looked like a smile, or maybe a cry: "I put up with you before because I cared about Brian Locke. Now I don't even care about him-why would I care about you?"

She grabbed the doorframe and stood up slowly, moving like a marionette. Margaret kept rambling: "Morgan's so gentle. She's perfect for Brian Locke."

"Sure," Sophia nodded, gasping for breath, each word sharp as a knife edge: "A family that leeches off the Jade family's money and shows no gratitude deserves a daughter-in-law who's nothing but a cheap hooker."

My arms tightened around Joanne Morgan. She whimpered in pain.

Sophia's gaze swept over me, like I was a stranger. Then she turned and walked out of the house we'd shared for five years. Sunlight poured in through the door, stretching her shadow long and thin-like a gust of wind could blow her away.

I suddenly remembered her walking toward me in her wedding dress five years ago. Back then, the light in her eyes had been hotter than today's sun.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from Stella Shaw-just a photo: Sophia sitting in the passenger seat, Stella Shaw leaning over to fasten her seatbelt, his profile tender enough to sting.

The caption read: I told you. Five years, tops.

I stared at the photo. Suddenly, Joanne Morgan in my arms felt light as an illusion.

Joanne Morgan's pov

As soon as Brian Locke said "Shut up," I knew-my chance had come.

I hooked my toe around his ankle and kicked hard, using his forward momentum to propel the blow-slamming my foot into Sophia Reed's chest. She stumbled back, clinging to the doorframe to stay upright, her face as white as paper, sweat dripping down her temples.

I saw the dusty shoe print on her chest, like an ugly stamp on her fancy silk blouse. A secret thrill surged in me-like a kid sneaking candy.

Brian flew into a rage, his calm completely shattered. But not for Sophia-for me, hurt by that "hooker" comment. Of course. Men like him couldn't stand the people they protected being looked down on.

Sophia tilted her head and laughed, her eyes like poisoned knives: "Brian Locke, why aren't you dead?"

Before she finished speaking, she lunged at him-suddenly brandishing a box cutter, the blade glinting toward his chest.

Second time. This woman was truly crazy.

I shrank back behind Brian, watching him stumble away, clutching his wound, his eyes wide with disbelief. Even after Uncle and Aunt Locke pulled Sophia off him, he kept staring at her, his voice shaking: "You really... want me dead?"

Sophia's eyes were terrifyingly red. Her lips moved, like she wanted to say something. But Aunt Locke's scream cut her off: "She's bleeding! So much blood!"

I followed her finger-Sophia's white dress was spreading with bright red, like poppies blooming in snow, seeping from her abdomen down to her legs.

"Sophia Reed!" Brian suddenly rushed over and held her, his voice panicking-a tone I'd never heard before. "What's wrong? Get the car! Hurry!"

He tried to lift her, but Sophia clung to the railing like a vice, her voice faint: "Bodyguard... take me to the hospital... bodyguard..."

"I'll take you! You'll be okay!" Brian pried at her hands, his knuckles shaking, but she held on, determined.

"I don't trust you!" she screamed suddenly, tears mixing with sweat. "You've never cared about me... Bodyguard! Help me!"

Only when the female bodyguard took her hand did Sophia go limp, fainting completely.

Brian carried her downstairs. I watched his back, something sharp digging into my chest. The way he looked down at Sophia-so focused-it scared me.

Back in the hospital room, I pulled out my phone and flipped through photos I'd saved.

Photos of him sleeping beside my hospital bed, his profile soft in the light; photos of him rushing over in his patient gown, his hair messy but his eyes only on me; photos of him peeling an apple for me, the skin in one long, thin strip- I'd made him do it on purpose, just to send to Sophia.

I typed fast, sending her the photos one by one:

The day I miscarried, Brian Locke stayed by my bed the whole time. He fell asleep like this, leaning over.

I called him at night, said I was heartbroken about losing the baby. He came right over to comfort me-still in his patient gown.

I said my stomach felt off just now, and he fed me porridge and peeled fruit for me. Ms. Jade, did you know your husband is amazing at peeling fruit with a knife?

The second I hit send, I could picture Sophia gritting her teeth on the other side of the screen. She'd never seen Brian like this, had she? The man who'd always been cold to her, cooking for me, rushing over just because I said I was upset.

Finally, I added: You looked so 可怜,bleeding like that-almost dying. I'll tell Brian Locke to come check on you.

Half-truth, half-lie. I felt sorry for her, but I wanted her to see who Brian's heart really belonged to.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before the door opened. Brian walked in, his brow furrowed, red-rimmed eyes, a faint smell of blood clinging to him.

He stood by Sophia's bed, his gaze dark-like an ocean hiding in his eyes. I couldn't read his emotions, only felt how strange they were.

The attending doctor walked in just then. Brian hurried over, his voice hoarse: "Why... why is she bleeding so much?"

The doctor froze, looking at Brian, then at Sophia's pale face on the bed. He hesitated: "Sir, your wife..."

My heart dropped. I leaned in quietly and heard the rest: "She had an abortion not long ago. Her body hasn't recovered. With the emotional stress and the physical impact... she didn't even get proper rest after the procedure."

Abortion?

I looked up at Brian sharply. His face turned white instantly, his pupils shrinking-like he'd been punched hard.

So Sophia had been pregnant with his baby too.

So the day she smashed his phone, she'd just lost a child.

No wonder she'd gone crazy. No wonder she'd screamed Why aren't you dead?...

Brian's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white, his breathing unsteady. When he looked at Sophia, his eyes held something I couldn't read-shock, regret, even a trace of... compassion?

I suddenly felt scared.

The man I thought I had firmly in my grasp had a past I knew nothing about-hidden where I couldn't see. And Sophia Reed, the woman I'd trampled on, had once been a part of his life-deeper than I could imagine.

I grabbed Brian's sleeve instinctively, whispering: "Brian Locke, I don't feel well..."

He snapped out of it, his eyes avoiding mine slightly. He patted my hand: "I'll get the nurse."

Then he turned to Sophia's bed, but his feet were rooted to the spot, not moving.

Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on Sophia's pale face. Her eyebrows were furrowed, like she was having a nightmare.

I looked at Brian's back. Suddenly, I realized-this battle I'd thought I'd already won had only just begun.

Before the doctor could finish speaking, I cut him off.

"I know my own body. No need to explain."

Brian sat down beside the bed, his gaze heavy on my face. After a long moment, he reached out and gently took my hand. His palm had thin calluses from years of writing and typing. The warmth seeped through my skin, burning-almost making me pull away.

"The chef made porridge at home. Want some?"

I forced a strange smile, my voice light: "Sure."

He opened the thermos and served a small bowl of red date sweet porridge. He scooped up a spoonful and held it to my mouth- the same gesture, the same angle, even the same amount of porridge-exactly how he'd fed Joanne Morgan.

I swung my hand up, sending the bowl and its contents crashing to the floor. The sound of breaking porcelain was sharp in the quiet room. I slowly pulled out a tissue and wiped my hands, my eyes fixed on his tight jaw: "Sorry. I hate red dates. And I hate sweet porridge."

"The chef's worked for the family for five years and still doesn't know my taste. Wasted your effort. Fire him."

He didn't get angry. He just rang for a nurse to clean up, his voice calm as still water: "What do you want? I'll tell the chef to make it."

I ignored him, closing my eyes and leaning back against the headboard.

But he called the chef anyway, listening as the man listed dishes over the phone, then repeating them one by one to me-his eyes fixed on me, like he was studying an inanimate object.

"Shrimp congee. That's it." When he finally decided, there was a faint note of certainty in his voice.

I opened my eyes and looked at him: "What happened to me has nothing to do with the Locke family. Leave. Don't waste your time here. We're already divorced!"

He acted like he didn't hear. He turned and went to the bathroom, wrung out a warm towel, and tried to wipe my hands and face.

How ridiculous. Once, I'd begged him to look at me, to answer even one of my messages-he'd ignored me. Now, I was telling him to leave, to stay out of my life-he still didn't hear.

I grabbed the water glass from the table and hurled it at him. Water soaked his shirt, spreading in dark patches down his chest.

"Get out!"

His white shirt was drenched, but he didn't even glance at it. Instead, he pushed all the fruit, medicine bottles, and tissue boxes on the nightstand toward me: "Keep throwing. When you're done, clean yourself up. Sticky with sweat-you're the one who'll be uncomfortable."

I laughed in anger, and started throwing things at him one by one. Apples rolled under the bed, medicine bottles hit his shoulder, tissues scattered like snow. He bent down to pick them up, then put them back by my hand, his eyes calm-urging me to continue.

By the third round, my arm ached too much to lift. He took the towel and wiped my neck and arms clumsily, like he was caring for a paralyzed old person. When the warm cloth brushed my skin, my nose suddenly stung-what had I been begging for all these years?

After he fed me the shrimp congee, his phone suddenly chimed that distinctive notification-short and sharp. He stood up instinctively: "Morgan's still recovering from her miscarriage. Her health's fragile. I need to check on her."

He left in a hurry, forgetting even the thermos. He didn't come back all night.

The next morning, my doctor friend came to make rounds. Looking at my pale face, she sighed: "Why did you hide the abortion from Brian? When he brought you here, his chest wound was still bleeding. People told him to get treatment first, but he refused-insisted on waiting until you came out of the ER before getting his bandages changed. Shea, if you'd seen how out of his mind he was..."

"I know," I cut her off, looking at the harsh sunlight outside the window. "I was still conscious. I felt it."

That's why I'd hidden it.

"I'm scared," I said, forcing a bitter smile. "Scared that if he knew-even if he felt just a little sorry for me-I'd fall for him again. My standards for him... are so low, I hate myself for it."

But between us lay Lily Bennett's death, and the baby we'd never met. Brian would never get past that.

The illness had drained me. I stayed in the hospital for five days. During those five days, Brian canceled all his work to stay with me-wiping me down, feeding me, reading financial news to me to pass the time-playing the perfect husband. But I knew-it was just guilt.

The week he went on a business trip to Shanghai, Joanne Morgan's messages came right on schedule.

I said I'd never been to Shanghai, so Brian Locke brought me along. Your husband is so sweet!

The video showed him holding her hand at Disneyland, the sun on his 侧脸,smiling gently.

He took me to a revolving restaurant. Said he'll show me the whole world someday.

The photo showed him cutting steak for her, his gaze as focused as if he were negotiating a hundred-million-yuan deal.

He took all these photos for me-spent two whole hours! Your husband is so patient, and he's great at taking pictures!

The nine-grid of photos showed Joanne Morgan laughing wildly, while Brian held the camera-patient, something I'd begged for for five years, something someone else got so easily.

So he would make exceptions for others. He'd go to amusement parks with them, take photos patiently...

I stared at the screen, my fingers cold. I typed slowly: Where are the bed photos? Don't you want to sleep with him?

The other side went silent instantly.

I tossed my phone aside and called the housekeeper: "Pack up all of Brian Locke's things and box them."

This house was a gift from my dad-a place I'd once dreamed of living in forever. Every bit of decor held my hopes for love. The divorce would be final in a week. He was the one who needed to leave.