Chapter 3
If she stayed any longer, she'd only be humiliating herself. Nina turned abruptly and left the hospital, almost fleeing.
Back home, she stared blankly at the furniture she had so carefully chosen, at the wedding portrait hanging on the wall.
She forced the words into her mind:
Summer has cancer now.
Lance was caring for her out of pity—nothing more.
After all, in the end, he had chosen her , hadn't he?
She pushed the thought aside, went to the bedroom, and began unpacking the luggage they had brought to their new home.
Lance hadn't brought much—just clothes and a few daily necessities. Hanging up his jackets, she noticed an old, worn wallet at the bottom of the suitcase.
Years ago, she had given Lance a wallet, but it wasn't this one. Lance rarely used wallets, never bothered to buy one himself. The origin of this wallet was obvious.
She opened it without thinking, and there—slipped into the transparent pocket—was a photograph.
The girl in the picture was smiling radiantly, with a touch of defiant charm. Nina recognized her instantly: Summer, fresh out of university.
Nina crouched on the floor, staring at the photo in a daze.
The picture had yellowed with time; it had clearly been kept for years.
When had the traces in his life stopped being hers, and become entirely Summer's?
She remembered years ago, when Lance had given her a Polaroid camera. The moment she received it, she took dozens of photos of the two of them together.
He'd collected them all, saying he would place them in every prominent spot so that everyone would know—Nina was the girl Lance loved most in the world.
Nina gazed at Summer's photo for a long while, then took a deep breath, slipped it out of the wallet, and tucked it into a drawer. In its place, she slid in a picture of the two of them together.
She didn't know if this was right or wrong, and she didn't care to think about it. After finishing the unpacking, she went to prepare dinner.
Before she'd gone abroad, Lance had sheltered her completely—she hadn't lifted a finger in the kitchen, couldn't even make fried rice.
He used to say, "Being my woman means you don't need to impress in the kitchen or anywhere else—just stay by my side."
But living alone overseas had forced her to learn. At first her cooking was barely edible; eventually, she managed a few simple home-style dishes.
There weren't many ingredients in the kitchen. Nina gathered some vegetables and started a pot of soup. She remembered Lance's stomach was weak.
She was stirring the soup when Lance walked in.
His expression was subdued, his brows faintly furrowed, a shadow of weariness in his demeanor.
"You're back. Is Summer feeling better?" Nina asked as she stirred the pan.
Lance's eyes were red, his voice hoarse.
"No. The doctor said her condition is worsening quickly. Surgery isn't an option anymore."
Nina froze, wanting to speak but unable to find the words.
Lance shrugged off his coat and headed upstairs. "I'm going to take a shower."
She watched his retreating back, lost in thought—until the acrid smell hit her. The vegetables in the pan were burning.
Flustered, she grabbed the pan to turn off the heat. Oil splattered everywhere, and she didn't notice the sting on her hand until she saw the angry red mark spreading across her skin.
She was about to run cold water over it when Lance suddenly came rushing down the stairs, his expression dark, voice cold.
"Where's the photo?!"