Chapter 4

Jasmine POV

Oliver's birthday arrived.

In previous years, I would start planning a week in advance.

I'd take half a day off, reserve premium ingredients, and spend an entire day in the kitchen making a full table of his favorite French cuisine.

I'd decorate the house warmly and prepare expensive surprise gifts for him.

Even his business friends knew that day was "Chef Jasmine Day," calling ahead to reserve a spot at dinner.

But this year, I did nothing.

That morning, Oliver deliberately spent a long time at the mirror, changing into a new custom-tailored suit.

He glanced at me several times, seemingly waiting for me to say "Happy birthday."

But I just sat by the window reading. I didn't even look up.

He couldn't hold back anymore. Before leaving, he cleared his throat. "I have a few partners coming over tonight."

"Oh." I turned a page.

"Get ready." He tossed out that sentence and slammed the door.

At 5 PM, Oliver called.

The background was noisy. Someone was heckling. "Where's Jasmine? I've been craving that lobster she makes for a whole year!"

Oliver's voice sounded a bit smug. "She's busy at home. Just come straight over."

Then he said to me, "Jasmine, make plenty of food. Matthew and the others are coming. Don't embarrass me."

I held the phone, looking at the gray sky outside. "I didn't cook."

Silence on the other end for a second.

"What did you say?" Oliver's voice dropped.

"I said I didn't cook. I didn't order catering either." I said calmly. "My hand hurts. Prepping ingredients is too exhausting. I can't do it."

"Jasmine, you're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Oliver lowered his voice, anger traveling through the line. "It's my birthday. My friends are all watching. You're making me look bad?"

Grace's voice came through. Cloying. "Oliver, is Jasmine still mad at me? How about I cook? Even though I'm not well, I can endure it for you."

Oliver immediately said, "Don't you dare. Your hands are for painting. How can you let them touch cooking grease?"

Hearing that, I couldn't help but look at my right hand.

My hand used to hold a scalpel. It was a hand that could snatch people back from death.

Now, in his eyes, it wasn't even worthy of cooking for Grace.

"Since Grace cares about you so much, let her do it."

I hung up.

Half an hour later, Oliver came home.

With Grace, and that group of awkward-looking friends.

They walked in to find cold pots and a cold stove. The open kitchen had no trace of warmth.

Oliver's face was black as soot.

"Jasmine, fine. You're really something." He ground his teeth, throwing his coat violently onto the sofa. "Are you staging a rebellion?"

Friends awkwardly tried to smooth things over. "Jasmine's hand is injured. It's normal she can't cook. Let's just go to a Michelin restaurant. I've been wanting to try that new place anyway."

Grace wiped away tears beside them. "It's all my fault. If it weren't for me, Jasmine wouldn't treat Oliver like this..."

I ignored the chaos filling the room and turned toward the study.

"Where are you going?" Oliver shouted behind me.

"To pack."

I walked into the study and pulled out a large cardboard box from the cabinet.

Inside were all the medical awards, licenses, and certificates I'd earned since childhood, along with every paper I'd published in core journals over the years.

I used to treasure these things. I'd take them out and polish them when I had free time.

Oliver used to say I was his pride. He loved seeing me shine as a top surgeon, confident and radiant.

Now, to him, these things were probably worth less than one of Grace's sketches.

I started throwing the certificates into the box one by one. My movements were gentle but decisive.

"What are you doing?" Oliver appeared in the doorway at some point, freezing when he saw what I was doing.

"These things take up space." I picked up a notebook Oliver had once given me, filled with dense notes from my surgeries. "Do you want it?"

Oliver glanced at it. It was a pure leather notebook he'd brought back from a business trip to Italy during our first year of marriage. The flyleaf still read, "To my beloved genius doctor."

His gaze flickered, as if remembering something, but it was quickly replaced by impatience.

"What act are you putting on now? Don't want to stay married anymore?"

"Do you want these or not?" I asked persistently. "If not, I'm throwing them out."

Oliver laughed coldly. "Who cares about your junk besides you? Throw it out if you want. Make room for Grace."

"Okay."

I closed the box.

That night, they ate out.

I lit a fire in the backyard fireplace.

Those certificates and awards representing thirty years of my achievements curled, blackened, and finally turned to ash in the flames.

The firelight reflected on my face. It felt hot.

When I got to the notebook, I hesitated for a moment, then threw it in anyway.

Oliver, since you don't care, I won't keep it.

Along with my love for you, I'll burn it all clean.