Chapter 3

Vivian’s POV

Those words pierced through me like needles, leaving my head pounding.

I told the people near me that I needed to touch up my makeup and slipped out through a side door.

At the far end of the quiet hallway, a floor-to-ceiling window let in a cold draft through a slight gap, chilling my face numb.

I leaned against the wall and stood there for a very long time.

He had a mistress on the outside—I had known that for a while, so I wasn't out here struggling to process the affair itself.

What I had to stomach was something else: every single guest in that room saw right through the truth, while I was the one kept in the dark, forced to smile and cover for them both.

I turned to head back.

Right next to the ballroom was a dimly lit private lounge. The door stood half open.

As I reached the doorway, my feet froze.

Henry and Chloe were standing pressed against each other inside, neither of them looking back.

"What's the rush? It's not like we can't see each other tonight," Chloe purred, her voice soft and playful.

"I haven't seen you in days. I missed you."

Standing in the doorway, waves of cold washed over me. My legs refused to move.

"So when are you going to let me move out of the dorms? I can't keep staying on campus forever."

"Don't worry. Once the baby is born, that apartment right next to your campus is yours. It's close to your classes, and convenient for me to drop by after work."

"And what about your wife? What if she doesn't agree to it?"

"Her? In the middle of the night, the only person on my mind has always been you."

I didn't stay to hear the rest.

All these years, he had been so attentive to me: remembering I hated parsley, remembering I needed warm water during my period, keeping track of every single small habit and preference I had.

When he stopped being as passionate as before, I told myself that was just how marriage went over time.

Now I finally understood.

He remembered those things only because it took zero effort, and it never got in the way of whatever else he wanted to do.

Whatever love he had for me was long dead. That lingering attentiveness was nothing more than an easy routine to placate me.

I turned around and walked back to the ballroom alone.

The reception was still ongoing. Glass in hand, I went back to entertaining the guests who approached me, my smile flawless and without a crack.

Nearly half an hour later, Chloe returned.

Her gown was crumpled, her collar askew, several strands of hair loose around her shoulders, and her face flushed an unnatural red.

She marched directly up to me. "Vivian, could I borrow your jacket? The AC is blowing right on me, and it's a bit cold."

Without a word, I slipped off my blazer and handed it to her.

As Chloe reached out to take it, she caught her heel on some spilled wine. Her body jerked, and with a shrill scream, she pitched forward, clutching my arm with all her weight.

The two of us crashed heavily onto the floor together.

Chloe landed entirely on top of me. My wrist slammed violently against the sharp edge of a nearby table, and the blinding pain made my vision go black.

"What happened?!"

Henry rushed over, immediately pulling Chloe up into his arms. "Chloe, are you okay? Where are you hurt?"

The entire ballroom turned to stare. Some assumed he was fussing over his wife, chiming in, "As long as she's not badly hurt, don't panic too much."

He didn't spare a single glance for me down on the floor.

I tilted my head back, watching his hands cradle her arm so gently, so carefully.

From this moment on, if anything ever happened to me out in the world, this man would never come running.

Lying on that floor, the realization cut through me far deeper than the pain in my wrist.

"Henry, my ankle hurts..." Chloe whimpered, tears pooling in her eyes.

"It's okay, I'll help you upstairs."

Henry supported her by the waist and walked her toward the exit. At the door, he paused to look back down at me on the ground. He hesitated for half a beat, but his feet never stopped.

I saw that look clearly. He saw me. He knew I fell. And he still walked away.

The tower of birthday presents near the door had been knocked over in the scramble. Boxes were scattered everywhere across the carpet, trampled flat by passing feet.

Using my good hand against the floor, I pushed myself up. My left wrist was badly swollen, throbbing at the slightest movement.

I didn't call for help. Leaning against the wall, I slowly made my way down to the hotel's on-site clinic.

The nurse gasped when she saw my wrist. As she iced and wrapped it, she asked, "Ma'am, where is your family? Why isn't anyone down here with you?"

"He's busy."

"No matter how busy he is, he should come check on you. Your wrist is swollen like a balloon."

"I can handle it on my own."

The words slipped out so smoothly that I even surprised myself.

I couldn't count how many times I had given that exact same answer over the past few years.

Once the wrap was finished, I remembered the hotel had prepared a change of clothes for me in an upstairs suite.

I took the elevator up. Just as I walked down the hall, I noticed a door left wide open, warm light spilling out onto the carpet.

Henry was sitting on the edge of the bed, Chloe's foot resting gently on his lap, staring down at a minor scrape on her knee.

It was barely a patch of red, yet he had already called the house doctor up twice, his brow locked in a tight frown the entire time.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked softly.

"It hurts..." Chloe dragged out the word, pouting.

"Sir, you take such good care of your girlfriend," the housekeeper remarked with a polite smile as she tidied the room.

Henry didn't deny it. He merely offered a quiet hum, his gaze never leaving Chloe's knee.

I stood out in the hallway watching the scene.

A tiny scrape warranted two doctor visits.

My wrist was swollen beyond recognition, and he hadn't asked a single question.

In his eyes, whether I was hurting simply didn't matter.

I looked down at the tight layers of gauze around my wrist, turned around, and pressed the button for the elevator going down.

Whatever faint shred of hope I had left for this man burned out completely that night.