Chapter 4

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.