When I had a threatened miscarriage, I bled all over the seat of Grant Sheridan’s car.

He glanced at the stain with visible disgust and immediately pushed me out of the car.

“You couldn’t prepare for your period in advance? How unlucky,” he snapped.

Later that night, just after I arrived home, he casually tossed a pair of lace panties at me.

“Samantha stained these during her period. Go wash them.”

I opened my phone and saw a post from his childhood sweetheart on her social media.

[When my period starts, my silly brother gets even more anxious than I do.]

The photo showed Grant in the kitchen, attentively making brown sugar peach gum soup.

Without hesitation, I called my boss.

“Give me the overseas project. I’m ready to take it.”

——

“…Are you sure?” he asked. “If you go, you’ll be gone for at least three years.”

“I’m sure,” I replied.

Right after the call, Grant walked out of the kitchen.

He’s a great cook, though he rarely bothers to cook unless it's for her.

“Who were you on the phone with?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I went straight to the bedroom—only to find Samantha Tate lying on our wedding bed.

She looked up and gave me a smug smile.

“Lena Sinclair, your bed is so soft. It really helps with my cramps.”

“You don’t mind, right?”

Grant followed right behind, not even glancing at me.

“Let Samantha rest here tonight. You can sleep in another room.”

I didn’t argue. I picked up my work laptop and quietly walked out.

Behind me, her saccharine voice rang out:

“Grant, the peach gum soup you made tastes amazing.”

He replied in a warm, doting tone, “If you like it, have some more.”

That very morning, I had suffered a threatened miscarriage. My blood soaked his car seat.

But he assumed I was just on my period, got irritated, and left me on the roadside.

I was shivering, panicking, and unable to hail a cab in the pouring rain.

By the time I made it to the hospital, the doctor shook his head regretfully.

“If you had come sooner, we might have been able to save the baby.”

Back home, I walked into the study and found the approval documents for the overseas project in my inbox. I signed them without hesitation.

Meanwhile, Grant went into the bathroom. When he didn’t see the usual warm bath I prepared for him each night, he finally remembered me.

He noticed I looked pale and was working in the study.

He started to walk in, maybe to say something.

But before he could speak, Samantha called for him.

He paused, smiled, and turned back to her room.

He didn’t come out for the rest of the night.

The next morning, as I opened my door, I saw him stepping out of Samantha’s room.

We both froze for a second.

He tried to explain, “Samantha had bad cramps last night. She needed someone with her.”

“I understand,” I said quietly, brushing past him toward the kitchen.

He frowned and followed me.

“Lena, listen. When Samantha wakes up, don’t be so cold to her, okay? She’s naturally kind and sensitive—don’t weigh her down emotionally.”

Since the day she returned from abroad, our marriage had been full of arguments.

Every time I tried to express any emotion or concern, he’d dismiss me in favor of protecting Samantha’s fragile little heart.

But now, I am done.

I pulled out my phone and placed it in front of him.

“Don’t worry. With you by her side, she won’t feel burdened at all.”

On the screen was Samantha’s latest midnight post:

[My silly brother stayed up all night with his warm hands on my stomach to ease the pain. He’s exhausted.]

The photo showed Grant fast asleep beside her, one large hand resting on her lower belly.

He opened his mouth, trying to explain. But no words came.

And I didn’t need to hear any.

But when he saw the indifference on my face, Grant immediately frowned.

“Samantha is still young. Don’t argue with her. Once she’s feeling better, I’ll send her back.”

I simply nodded. “Alright.”

Then I quietly turned around and started preparing breakfast.

Watching my solitary figure at the stove, his tone softened a little.

“Didn’t you always say you missed the boat porridge I used to make? Let me cook it today.”

He busied himself in the kitchen, but instead of feeling touched, I felt hollow.

We had been together for years, yet he had never cooked a single meal for me.

Now, with Samantha back in his life, she was the one enjoying his care and home-cooked dishes every day.

Just as I was about to speak, Samantha came running out of the bedroom, barefoot and giggling.

She clung to Grant’s arm, whining like a child.

“Grant, I want the crab and shrimp dumplings from that old place in Westfield!”

That restaurant was famous—it took an hour to get there, not counting the long lines.

I’d once told him I wanted to try it. He snapped,

“No! Too far and too much hassle!”

But now, he just chuckled, affectionately tapping Samantha’s nose.

“Okay, okay, I’ll spoil my little foodie.”

Without another word, he took her out, once again forgetting all about me.

I finished cooking alone, as usual.

Calmly, I picked up my phone and canceled our wedding photoshoot appointment.

Just after I hung up, a sharp pain tore through my lower abdomen.

I collapsed to the floor, curled up in agony, and instinctively called Grant.

The phone rang endlessly before he finally answered, his voice laced with irritation.

“Lena, enough already! Can’t you see Samantha’s still hungry? I don’t have time for this. If it’s important, text me!”

“Grant, I—”

Before I could finish, he hung up.

Everything went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I was already in the hospital. The ambulance had brought me in.

The doctor said I had miscarried and needed to rest properly from now on.

That night in the hospital, Grant called.

“Why haven’t you come home?”

I didn’t even hesitate. “I’m working overtime.”

He didn’t question it further. Instead, he just said,

“Samantha’s staying at our place these days. If you come home late, don’t disturb her rest.”

In the past, he never called me, no matter how late I worked.

Now, he was only worried I might disrupt Samantha’s peace.

He never called again that night.

I could guess he spent it with her.

The next morning, I was discharged from the hospital and went to pick up my medication.

At the entrance, I saw Grant supporting Samantha, who looked frail and pitiful, both hands pressed to her abdomen as she leaned weakly against him.

Grant noticed me and immediately frowned. He stepped forward.

“Lena? Are you here to see a doctor too?”

There was a hint of displeasure in his tone, as if he suspected I had followed them.

I looked at him calmly. “Yes. My period’s been painful, so I came to see the doctor.”

His expression stiffened—probably recalling how he had thrown me out of the car two days ago.

Seizing the moment, Samantha collapsed further into his arms, her voice sweetly laced with sarcasm.

“Lena came to the hospital by herself? Then I guess it’s not that serious.”

She turned to him with tearful eyes.

“Grant, I’m so useless, aren’t I? When I’m in pain, I can’t even walk… You always have to carry me.”

His face softened instantly.

“If you’re in pain, just tell me. I’ll stay with you the whole time, alright?”

He gently helped her as they walked ahead together.

Then, as an afterthought, he turned and looked at me.

“Come with us. I’ll give you a ride home,” he said, as though offering charity.

I declined firmly, saying I wanted to return to the office.

But without a word, Grant pulled me into the back seat.

Samantha was already seated in the front passenger seat, her posture casual and confident—like she owned the car, and the man beside her.

“Lena, just let Grant drive you,” she said sweetly. “He hasn’t been going to the office lately because he’s been keeping me company. He has plenty of free time now.”

In our eight years together, even during our anniversaries or when I was sick, Grant never missed work—not for me.

But the moment Samantha returned to America, she became the sole recipient of his rare and undivided attention.

That thought stung. I looked up, my eyes quietly taking in the two figures seated ahead of me.

Just then, Samantha gasped.

“Grant, I think I stained your seat!”

There was indeed a faint, dark red patch on the passenger seat.

Grant didn’t flinch. His tone was gentle, even indulgent.

“It’s alright, just needs a wash.”

Then, almost out of instinct, he glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

Seeing that I hadn’t reacted, he looked away without another word.

When we arrived at the office building, I opened the door to step out—only to run into my supervisor.

“Lena,” he said seriously, “are you absolutely sure about this? Once the application’s processed, there’s no turning back. Weren’t you planning to get married and go on your honeymoon next month?”

I was about to respond when Grant lowered the car window, his expression cold.

“Lena, Samantha wants to travel next month,” he announced bluntly. “Let’s push back the wedding and honeymoon by a month.”

I nodded without hesitation. “Alright.”

He was momentarily stunned, as if expecting me to argue or throw a fit. But I didn’t. I simply agreed.

Before I could say more, Samantha leaned toward him, tugging on his arm playfully.

“Grant, don’t postpone the honeymoon. Let’s all travel together instead.”

Grant grinned and, without even looking back at me, responded cheerfully,

“Sure, we’ll go together. Lena, let’s just book our trips separately.”

I didn’t object.

After all, I had already decided not to go through with the wedding—what reason did I have to go on a honeymoon?

I watched the car drive off, his silhouette growing smaller.

My supervisor looked at me with concern.

“Once the paperwork is submitted, it takes about a week. But if needed, I can expedite it—you could leave as early as the day after tomorrow.”

That evening, for the first time in a long while, Grant came to pick me up from work.

The moment I got into the car, he handed me a bowl of warm black sugar peach gum soup.

“I made this for you,” he said.

But just as he finished speaking, his phone screen lit up with a message.

It was from Samantha.

[Grant, you’re such a dummy. You made so much brown sugar peach gum soup—are you trying to turn Samantha into a little pig? ]

The car fell into an awkward silence.

Eventually, he broke it.

“You’re reading materials about foreign projects. Planning to take a trip for work?”

I shook my head. “My boss just asked me to familiarize myself with them.”

Sensing my low mood, he—who was usually aloof—suddenly softened his tone.

“Take the day off tomorrow. I’ll take you to the movies. Weren’t you always begging to see that new release?”

“No need. I don’t have time tomorrow.”

It was once his most anticipated movie.

But he had already watched it—with her.

No point watching it again.

He misunderstood, and his tone grew sharp.

“Lena, what’s your problem now?”

“I just let Samantha stay at our house for a few days, and you’re already throwing a fit?”

I was taken aback, about to explain that I wasn’t upset.

But he didn’t wait for my answer.

He scoffed and continued, voice heavy with accusation.

“With your attitude, how can I marry you? Samantha would suffer too much in the future!”

Then came the final blow:

“Let me make this clear—I am the one in charge of this house. Letting Samantha stay for a few days? That’s nothing. Even if she ends up living with us permanently, you have no right to object!”