Around the same time, Oliver asked the nurse at the hospital, “Is there a woman named Cassandra Wolfe admitted here?”
The nurse shook her head. “No, sir.”
Oliver’s right eyelid twitched. A sudden feeling of unease rose in his chest.
The next second, Bianca on the hospital bed looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Oliver, go check on my sister. I’m fine.”
This was her usual trick, pretending to step back so he would stay. In the past, Oliver always fell for it. But this time, he hesitated.
Just as Bianca thought he would stay, Oliver stood up. “Rest well. I’ll come back to see you soon.”
On the way home, Oliver’s mind was filled with Bianca’s tearful face. He rushed back as fast as he could and pushed the door open in panic.
Behind the door, Cassandra was watching the security footage. On the screen, Oliver and Bianca were hugging closely.
Her stomach twisted. She felt sick.
So while she was gone, Oliver had brought Bianca into their shared bedroom and done all kinds of intimate things there.
Bang.
The front door slammed shut. Cassandra instinctively turned off the monitor. She looked at him coldly.
“Why are you here?”
Shouldn’t he be with Bianca right now?
Seeing Cassandra standing in the living room, the worry Oliver carried all the way finally eased.
He looked around the house and noticed many things were missing. On the jewelry table, the pieces he had casually bought for Cassandra, the ones she once treasured, were all gone.
“Sandra… where is the jewelry I gave you?” His voice sounded unsteady.
Unlike his anxiety, Cassandra remained calm. “They were old. They cracked. I threw them into the trash.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Oliver said quickly. “If they’re damaged, it’s fine to throw them away. I’ll buy you new ones.”
This was the first time since their marriage that Oliver called himself her husband.
Cassandra looked at him in surprise. Her heart felt completely still.
Oliver was thinking about something else and didn’t reflect much on the jewelry. Softly, he said, “Sandra, my parents have accepted our relationship.”
“Wait a little longer before leaving. Tomorrow, I’m planning a surprise for you.”
There was a trace of guilt in his eyes. “I love your sister, but I promise you, the position of Mrs. Prescott will always be yours.”
For a rare moment, he looked sincere.
Cassandra stared at the face she had known since youth. Her numb heart still felt a sharp pain. How could he say something so cruel so calmly?
She swallowed the ache. She wanted to say that Bianca could have the title if she wanted it.
Before she could speak, Oliver’s phone rang.
It was Bianca.
“Oliver, where are you? I think I touched my wound. It hurts so much.”
With just one sentence, Oliver grabbed his keys and turned to leave.
Then he noticed how quiet it was behind him.
He turned back. “Sandra, I’ll come back to see you tonight.”
Cassandra stood still, silently watching his retreating back.
She made a phone call. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes. It will be released tomorrow.”
After hanging up, Cassandra curved her lips slightly. “Perfect. I also have a surprise for you tomorrow.”
A car had already arrived downstairs.
Cassandra left a letter, went downstairs and got into the car. Her phone vibrated again.
It was a message from Oliver: [Tomorrow, go to the hotel. A makeup artist will be there. This time, I’ll let you become my wife openly.]
Cassandra forwarded the location to Bianca. Then she blocked Oliver, Bianca and both parents’ numbers.
She slowly let out a breath and said to the driver, “Drive.”
“Alright. Please sit tight.” The car moved forward slowly.
Cassandra looked out the window at the passing scenery.
She whispered to herself, "Oliver, I’ve already left. When you finally realize I’m gone, how will you feel then?"
The ninth button. I was sewing the ninth button back onto my husband's shirt when he fished a scrap of lace from the laundry pile and dangled it between two fingers.
"Did this shrink?" Thomas squinted at the fabric, turning it over.
The needle froze mid-stitch.
That pair was six months old. It hadn't changed.
When I said nothing, he scratched his head and shrugged. "Must have remembered wrong. Women's sizes are all over the place anyway."
Outside, the drying rack swayed in the breeze. Every pair of panties hanging there was identical—conservative cotton.
That scrap of lace wasn't mine.
My phone buzzed against the table. Quinn Barnes. My former senior from grad school, inviting me to join his overseas research institute.
For the 998th time.
——
*Ignore.*
"Professor Gilbert! Come take a picture!"
Hazel Fox hooked her arm through Thomas's and claimed the seat of honor beside him. She pressed her chest firmly against his arm, radiating a possessiveness that made my stomach turn.
My mother-in-law shoved her phone into my hands. "You. Take the picture. Then go cook."
Hazel sat dead center, flanked by Thomas and his mother. They looked like the perfect family.
"Isn't this inappropriate?" I turned to Thomas, silently pleading for him to remember his role. To set a boundary.
His brow furrowed. "Just take it, Elise. Hazel is hungry."
So I raised the phone. Maintained the facade of the virtuous wife. My finger trembled on the shutter.
The image froze on the screen: Hazel's head tilted, resting intimately on Thomas's shoulder.
As I handed the phone back, I saw it.
His palm. Pressed possessively against the small of her back.
I had always believed that as a professor at A University, Thomas Gilbert would have boundaries. Integrity.
The man before me felt like a stranger.
Earlier, a student had approached me, eager to discuss new material science findings. Hazel had cut in with a sneer. "Are you stupid? The Professor's wife is just a housewife. What would she know about that?"
Three years ago, I was a specially appointed professor at that same university. Many of the students in this room had once attended my lectures.
Not a single one spoke up for me.
Thomas had merely smiled, tacitly allowing the ridicule.
Nausea rose in my throat. I turned toward my room, but my mother-in-law blocked my path and shoved me toward the kitchen.
"Don't think you can slack off. You've been married for years and still haven't managed to lay an egg. You haven't earned the right to be lazy."
She watched me like a prison warden while I chopped vegetables.
Thomas entered a moment later. For once, he handed me a pair of gloves.
"Hazel has a delicate stomach." His voice was void of warmth. "If the food isn't clean, she gets diarrhea."
He took the fruit platter I had just cut and carried it out to the living room.
"Professor is so amazing!" the students chorused. "He even helps his wife with the housework!"
My mother-in-law beamed. "My son is young and outstanding. Any woman who marries him should thank her lucky stars! If he hadn't settled down so early, he could have done much better."
"If I had met Teacher ten years ago, I definitely would have pursued him," Hazel sighed. "With such a good husband, I'd give him three children!"
I stood in the doorway, balancing a steaming dish in one hand and a stack of bowls in the other.
Thomas and Hazel were gazing at each other. The air between them was thick. Electric.
The ceramic burned my fingers, but a chill spread through my chest, freezing my heart inch by inch.
How many years had it been since he looked at me with that kind of tenderness?
I set the dish on the table with a clatter. "Eat."
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, the dam broke. Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast.
Three years ago, I was pregnant. I worked myself to the bone and lost the baby to exhaustion.
Back then, Thomas had held me, whispering, "The child isn't important. You are the most important thing to me."
Because of that sentence—*isn't important*—I had endured three years of ovulation shots and swallowed countless hormone pills. My legs had swollen until I could barely walk.
Yesterday, two pink lines had finally appeared on the test.
Today, I discovered my husband was cheating.
A knock disrupted my grief. Thomas squeezed into the room. Seeing my red, swollen eyes, he let out a long, exaggerated sigh and lifted the corner of his shirt to wipe my tears.
