So even mistresses have their pride.

The room still carried an unpleasant stench that turned my stomach. I pressed the call button.

When the nurse came in, she asked, "What's wrong?"

"Please open the windows," I replied calmly. "There's a foul smell in here."

Not long after, Owen returned—but without our daughter.

He placed a thermos and his car keys on the table, his expression tense.

I could guess why—Viviana must have already gone to him.

I sneered internally. So this was what it felt like to have a once-intimate husband shared with someone else. It was like a beautiful cake falling into dog poop.

But Owen wasn’t an impulsive boy anymore. He suppressed his anger as he poured soup from the thermos, speaking in an even tone.

"I dropped Allison off at Mom's place."

"Which mom? Yours or mine?" I quirked my eyebrow.

He looked up, his brow furrowed. "Of course her grandmother's house."

His tone carried a sharp edge.

I half-closed my eyes and said flatly, "There’s a nurse here to look after me. You can go back too."

His lips pressed into a thin line, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he hesitated. Finally, he asked, “Did Viviana come to see you?”

“She did,” I said, meeting his gaze. “Did she tattle on me? Tell you I suggested she film your little trysts so I could see them myself?”

The bowl of soup he was holding slammed heavily onto the table, splashing broth everywhere.

He stared at me, his eyes flickering with anger. "Alicia, do you plan to use those videos to force me into leaving with nothing? Or do you want to blackmail me?"

"What else?" I replied coldly. "A man who cheats is like cash smeared with excrement—who would want to keep holding it?"

For a moment, he was speechless, his eyes wide with disbelief.

I suddenly felt weary of it all.

"Owen," I said quietly, "your mistress had the audacity to confront me in my hospital room, and yet your only concern is whether I’ll go after your money. Is that who I am to you?"

The brightest moon was only seen in the darkest night; the closest of bonds could turn to the coldest of relationships.

When the sweetness of a marriage was gone, what was left was bitterness—more venomous than between enemies.

His eyes grew red as his grip on my arm loosened. He rubbed his face and muttered, "I’m sorry."

Did I need his apology?

---

Owen and I were college classmates. He was a senior when I was a freshman.

One of my dorm mates, Thalia, had started dating one of his friends and often dragged me along to their gatherings. That was how I first met him.

He always had an aloof demeanor, rarely speaking much, yet he stood out in any crowd.

On Thalia’s birthday, I arrived late, bundled up in a thick down jacket. As soon as I stepped into the private room, my glasses fogged up. Someone pulled me to sit down beside them.

There was a woman at the table who seemed to target me for no reason. I didn’t even know her, yet she kept making snide remarks, practically accusing me of being some public flirt.

I was so angry I was on the verge of tears.

Someone patted my shoulder comfortingly. Following the hand upward, I realized it was Owen.

No wonder that woman had been going after me—it was because of him.

I excused myself to the restroom. Standing at the sink, I took off my glasses and saw that my eyes were red.

"You look like a little rabbit, hiding here to cry," a voice said unexpectedly.

Startled, I turned around to see Owen leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his fingers.

With his pale complexion, long lashes, and flushed lips, he looked like a character out of a poem—as graceful as jade, unmatched in the world.

That was when I realized he had been using me as a shield.

I put my glasses back on and made them leave, but he blocked my way.

With a nudge, he extended his arm toward me.

I was cornered.

He towered over me, standing at 1.86 meters tall. His broad shoulders blocked all my views. Even though there was still some space between us, my face felt like it was on fire, as if he had pulled me directly into his embrace.

“Why does it feel like you seem to dislike me?” he whispered.

That wasn’t true. Truthfully, I was captivated by his good looks, but I knew better than to get close to him. We were from completely different worlds, and I didn’t want to provoke his dislike—or cause trouble for Thalia.

“Senior, please don’t joke around. We’re just not close,” I explained.

But he simply laughed, stepped back, and let me go.

I almost collapsed to my knees, gasping for fresh air while simultaneously feeling a sense of loss.

Before my mind could catch up, he suddenly grabbed my hand.

“You silly girl. Someone says something to you, and you don’t even fight back? Watch me take care of it for you.”

Before I could react, he pulled me into a private room.

His hand was cool but large enough to completely envelop mine.

All the sweetness from before felt like a double-edged sword.

The sound of the door opening snapped me out of my memories.

A nurse walked in, and Owen immediately turned to her. “My wife isn’t feeling well. Her complexion is very pale.”

The nurse checked my temperature and inspected my wound.

Exhausted, I closed my eyes, unwilling to say anything more.

He stood by my side the whole time. After a long silence, he gently squeezed my hand. “Alicia, don’t be like this.”

The fire in my chest flared up, surging to my throat, and I exploded. “Owen, let’s get a divorce.”

Owen refused to agree, sending my sister and mother to take turns persuading me.

My sister, who had benefited from Owen’s help over the past two years, immediately painted a rosy picture. “Men have social obligations, it’s inevitable they’ll have some flings. Your Owen is rich and handsome—how can you expect him to stay loyal to just one woman? As long as he doesn’t bring it to your face, you’re still Mrs. Stokes. Don’t stir things up—be grateful for your blessings.”

Blessings? I raised my eyes to look at her. “Would you like these blessings? Last time a female client called your husband late at night, didn’t you storm into his office?”

She looked embarrassed and muttered under her breath, “That’s different.”

Then my mother started crying. “Your sister has a point. If you really get divorced, what about Allison? Have you thought this through?”

“The Stokes family would never give you custody of the child. If Owen remarries, Allison will have to live with a stepmother. Won’t that break your heart?”

Her words sent a chill down my spine.

I had been so focused on wanting a divorce that I hadn’t thought about the practicalities.

Who would get custody? How would marital assets be divided?

No wonder my sister accused me of spoiling Owen. Over the years, I had settled into the role of a full-time wife and lost any sense of financial independence.

If Owen truly wanted a divorce, he might compensate me financially, but he clearly didn’t.

Even if I got custody, how would I raise my child without money?

This realization brought my divorce plans to a halt. Anxiety gripped me.

Every time I thought about Owen pressing Viviana against the wall and kissing her, I felt suffocated.

Could I really stay trapped in this marriage, wasting away day by day, living as a couple that despised each other?

No, this wasn’t the life I wanted.

But when I thought about leaving the man I had loved for so many years, the home I had carefully decorated, and the child I had carried for ten months—it felt like my heart was being ripped out.

Suddenly, I just wanted to go home.

After sending my family away, I called Owen, hoping to have a proper conversation with him.

But he didn’t answer.

Frustrated, I hailed a cab and went straight home.

I dragged my aching body up the stairs. My heart softened at the sight of the bunny-shaped paper cutout pasted on the door.

It was something the three of us had made together as a family. The bunny looked more like a dog, but it was brimming with love and happiness.

I entered the door code and opened it. Inside, I saw Owen's shoes.

He was home. So why hadn’t he answered my calls?

As I bent down to change my shoes, muffled voices came from the bathroom—accompanied by soft, feminine gasps.