As the conversation began, a sudden gasp echoed through the room. The tower of wine glasses, arranged artfully in the living room, fell apart in an instant, collapsing like a house of cards.

Celeste Taylor stood at the center, seemingly rooted to the spot by shock. Before anyone could react, Jamison Perry dashed past everyone with the speed of the wind. He rushed to Celeste, shielding her with his body, taking most of the impact and the spray of wine upon himself.

"Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously, not even bothering to wipe away the mix of wine and blood trickling down his forehead.

"I'm okay," Celeste replied, her eyes welling up with tears as she gently dabbed at his wound, wiping the liquid from his face. The air around them seemed to freeze; it felt as if they were in their own world, caught in a spotlight.

Then, Mae Ruiz's best friend, Maggie Parker, shouted out in alarm. "Mae, you're hurt!"

Mae snapped back to her senses. She realized that in her attempt to dodge the falling glasses, a shard had embedded itself in her calf. The delayed pain made her wince slightly.

Jamison released Celeste from his embrace, his eyes darting to Mae's injury with a mix of guilt, remorse, and concern. Mae found his reaction puzzling. If he was so worried, why hadn’t he hesitated before?

He approached Mae carefully, crouching down with gentle hands to lift her into his arms. "I'll take you to the ER."

As they were leaving, Mae glanced back. Celeste’s eyes stayed locked on Jamison, but his brow was furrowed, his attention fixed solely on Mae’s wound, ignoring Celeste completely. It was as if the frantic, intense man from moments ago was someone else entirely.

But then, Celeste’s soft, hesitant voice broke the silence. "Jamison, my hand is hurt too. Could you take me to the ER as well?"

Mae Ruiz and Jamison Perry were united through their families. Unlike the dramatic romances of others, their relationship had been smooth and uneventful. With all aspects of their lives seemingly compatible, they married after a year of dating. For three years, Jamison had been nothing but accommodating and devoted. Except for the lack of children, Mae had no other regrets. She once believed this was what happiness looked like. But now, because of Jamison’s sudden and intense emotion, Mae was beginning to have her doubts.

Her gaze caught Celeste Taylor’s reflection in the rearview mirror. It felt as if a sharp knife had unexpectedly pierced her heart, sending waves of pain throughout her body. Jamison’s anxious voice seemed distant as he held her hand tightly, offering constant reassurances.

“Does it hurt a lot? Hang in there, we’re almost at the hospital,” he murmured. See, he was still as attentive as ever. If it weren’t for the intense gaze from the back seat, Mae might have convinced herself this was enough.

She mustered the strength to turn around and smile warmly. “I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor, my husband tends to be overly concerned.” Celeste’s face turned ghostly pale immediately. “That’s kind of you. I’m quite envious.” The word “envious” was barely audible, an almost inaudible whisper.

Next to Mae, Jamison’s expression remained unchanged, as if everything were perfectly normal, except he didn’t notice how tightly he was gripping her hand. The silence in the car was stifling, as if Mae and Celeste were two strangers coincidentally sharing a ride, waiting for Jamison to take them to their destination.

Once they reached the hospital, Jamison carried Mae from the car and only remembered Celeste trailing behind them after some time. “Ms. Taylor, my wife’s injuries are quite severe. Please feel free to go about your business from here,” he said, nodding briefly towards her before disappearing with Mae into the hospital.

After treating his wounds and returning home, Jamison Perry did something unusual by suggesting Mae get some rest early.

"Okay, just make sure to clean up soon—I'll wait for you," she replied.

While Jamison showered, Mae took the chance to install a hidden tracking app on his phone.

His recent activity appeared spotless.

She searched through his messages with Celeste Taylor.

Not a single trace.

Mae should have seen this coming.

She returned the phone to its original spot.

Jamison then wrapped his arm around her waist and drifted off to sleep.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when, in the darkness, his phone buzzed.

Within seconds, he silenced it.

"Mae," he whispered.

She feigned sleep.

Quietly, he slipped out of bed, and shortly after, she heard the front door close.

Mae pulled out her phone and tracked his phone's location.

The destination was familiar: the hospital she’d visited earlier that day.

It seemed he still couldn’t let go.

Mae went to the study and found the key to his safe.

Perhaps Jamison thought she was easy to fool and hadn’t built much of a defense against her in the study or with the key.

Mae searched through the contents one by one.

Inside, along with the sketch she’d seen before, were numerous artworks of Celeste in various sizes.

Sketches, watercolors, oil paintings, digital art…

It was as if Jamison wanted to capture her beauty with every stroke and medium available to him.

For a moment, Mae was transported back to over half a year ago.

Their third wedding anniversary.

After dinner, Jamison had retreated to the study.

Mae had followed him in, watching him fiddle with his brushes and playfully asked him to paint her.

A myriad of emotions had flashed in his eyes.

Mae couldn’t catch them all but recognized a sense of longing.

Back then, she had thought he was yearning for the days when he could freely pursue his dreams.

As the sole heir of the Perry family, Jamison’s father had vehemently opposed him pursuing art as a career.

Rumor had it that at the height of their argument, the father and son nearly came to blows.

For reasons unknown, Jamison eventually gave up on his dream.

He hadn’t picked up a brush since.

Seeing him that way, Mae had held him, feeling guilty for making such an unreasonable request.

But now she could see that the most recent date on one of those artworks was just two weeks ago.

She realized how naive she had been.

He hadn’t stopped painting; he simply didn’t want to paint for her.

There were numerous articles on Celeste’s accomplishments abroad, the awards she’d won.

Even their exchanges had been preserved and bound into books.

Mae felt she couldn’t hold herself upright any longer and slowly slid down against the bookshelf.

As she came to her senses, daylight had already broken.

Her phone rang, and Jamison’s voice, smooth and carefree, came through:

“Hey, love, are you awake? How's your wound feeling? Something came up at the office, and I need to go on a business trip…”

It was the same routine as always.

Jamison never needed to finish his sentence.

Mae would obligingly find a way to make it easier for him, reminding him to prioritize work and to take care of himself.

But this time, Mae felt sharp, determined to prove that their three years of marriage and four years of relationship were not just an illusion.

“My wound's feeling a bit worse. Could you come with me to the hospital once more?”