Chapter 2

Cassidy's POV

I stared at that glowing screen, blood seeming to flow backward through my veins.

What was this?

A chill ran down my spine.

I thought he was just cold and indifferent. I didn't realize he was a voyeur?

"Mrs. Bennett! Stop standing there! Call an ambulance!"

The housekeeper's tearful, frantic shouting pulled me back to reality.

I snapped out of it, looking down at the deathly pale man in my arms.

Even unconscious, his hand still gripped my wrist in a death grip.

His body temperature was abnormally high, his scorching breath fanning against the hollow of my neck, making my skin tingle.

"Don't call an ambulance."

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "Call Dr. Morgan. This kind of thing... can't get out."

If the outside world found out that Tristan Bennett, billionaire CEO, collapsed from watching surveillance footage of his own wife late at night, the company's stock would probably crash by morning.

Half an hour later, Dr. Morgan, our private physician, arrived in a rush.

After a thorough examination and an IV drip, it was well past midnight before Tristan's condition stabilized.

"How is he?" I stood by the bed, looking at that face that remained sharp even in sleep, my emotions tangled.

Dr. Morgan removed his stethoscope and sighed. "This is acute stress-induced hyperthermic convulsion. And there's a large residue of sedatives in his system. He's been taking them long-term."

He gave me a meaningful look. "He has a strong constitution, but even he can't take this kind of abuse. Some things can't be cured with medicine. You'll need to be patient."

Long-term sedative use?

I was stunned.

Was that pill bottle in the study earlier really filled with sedatives?

After seeing Dr. Morgan out, I didn't leave.

I sat in the chair beside the bed, watching the sleeping Tristan.

The room was very quiet, only the soft drip of the IV breaking the silence.

My gaze fell again on that laptop.

The screen had gone black.

But that surveillance footage stuck in my mind like a thorn.

If he was spying on me, why hadn't he touched me once in three years?

Unless...

He was some kind of psychological deviant who only liked to watch, not act?

Or maybe he saw me as some kind of observation subject?

"...Don't go."

Just as I was lost in wild speculation, the man on the bed suddenly moved.

Tristan's voice was hoarse, carrying the incoherence of someone not fully awake.

I instinctively tried to pull my hand back, only to find my wrist still clamped in his grip.

He opened his eyes.

Those eyes, usually cold as ice, now looked somewhat unfocused and moist from the fever and medication.

He stared at me fixedly, as if unable to distinguish dream from reality.

"Cassidy?" He called my name, his voice impossibly soft.

"You're awake?" I kept my face cold, trying to shake off his hand. "If you're awake, let go."

Hearing my cold tone, clarity returned to Tristan's eyes for a moment.

He released my hand and tried to sit up, but collapsed back down from weakness.

His gaze shifted and landed on the laptop on the nightstand.

His pupils constricted sharply. He raised his head, staring at me hard, and asked, "You saw it?"

I didn't avoid the question, meeting his eyes directly. "I saw it. So Tristan, care to explain? Installing surveillance in the master bedroom-am I a criminal under interrogation, or a pet you're raising?"

Tristan pressed his thin lips into a tight line, his jawline tense.

He didn't explain.

Silence spread through the air.

After a long while, he finally spoke, voice hoarse, tone full of mockery. "Since you saw it, I'll give you what you want."

"I'm a pervert."

He looked at me, the corner of his mouth curling into a self-deprecating arc. "I'm a pervert who spies on you. Is that reason enough for you to divorce me?"