Chapter 2

As soon as Julian saw Dominic, his face went ghostly pale.

Men's need to win could be so unpredictable.

Although I was the ex-wife he'd dumped, seeing me cared for by his old rival still got under his skin and made his blood boil.

Julian narrowed his eyes, his voice cold and accusing as he asked, "Dominic?

"Why are you here? When did you two get together?"

Dominic acted like he'd only just noticed Julian.

He turned around, giving a polite but distant smile, his eyes as cold as ice.

Dominic replied, "Julian, long time no see.

"I've been with Vivian for three years.

"We're holding the wedding at the end of the year. Don't forget to come and have a drink with us."

After saying that, he naturally reached for my hand, our fingers intertwining.

Julian's eyes were glued to our joined hands.

Right there, on my ring finger, was a simple band.

And on the inside of my wrist, the ugly burn scar that had been burned to cook for him was now hidden beneath a vivid, seductive rose tattoo in full bloom.

My skin was perfect, my fingers long and graceful.

Julian was stunned, barely able to speak. "Your hand."

His gaze lingered on my wrist as he murmured, "That scar."

I pulled my hand back instinctively.

That scar was from when I burned myself making so-called healthy soup for him.

At that time, he didn't even glance at it.

He was too busy tending to Penelope's paper cut, carefully putting a Band-Aid on her finger.

Memories cut like a dull blade, slow, lingering pain.

It was better not to remember. Once I did, that dull, lingering ache crept right back in.

Back then, Penelope had just returned from overseas and moved into our guest room, saying she wanted to "find inspiration."

Julian told me she was a pianist and a painter.

Her hands were the most precious thing. She couldn't lift a finger around the house.

So, all the housework at home fell on me alone.

One day, out of nowhere, Penelope said she wanted to eat apples.

I was washing the dishes, my hands covered in soapy bubbles.

So she picked up the fruit knife herself and had barely started slicing.

Julian rushed in like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on.

He grabbed the knife from Penelope's hand and slammed it to the ground.

The tip of the knife grazed my ankle, leaving a streak of blood behind.

But he didn't even look at me.

All his attention was on Penelope, cradling her soft hands, checking them over and over, his eyes filled with fear and concern.

When he finally turned to me, he snapped, his tone harsh and biting, "Vivian, are you just standing there like a corpse?

"Didn't I tell you that Penelope's hands are meant for playing piano and painting? They're practically art.

"How could you let her touch something as dangerous as a knife?

"You're tough, used to doing all the chores. Is it really that hard for you to peel an apple?"

At that moment, I stood there in the mess, staring at my own hands, rough, cracked, and peeling from years of scrubbing and cleaning.

Then I looked at Penelope's hands, the ones he held so carefully, soft, pampered, slathered in expensive hand cream.

For the first time, I realized even as husband and wife, there were always levels. Penelope was just more important than me.

In his world, Penelope was like an untouchable masterpiece, always up on a pedestal.

And I was just a rough clay pot on the ground, so tough nothing could break me, or even make me feel anything.

"Vivian?" Dominic called, snapping me back to reality.

I came to my senses.

Only then did he realize that Julian was staring at Penelope's hand in a daze.

At this moment, those so-called "artist's hands" he once treated like treasures were clutching the dirty vomit bag tightly.

Her nails were stuffed with bits of Chloe's vomit.

Years without pampering, plus the grind of raising Chloe, had really worn them down.

Her hands had grown rough and dull, knuckles thick and swollen, with a few chapped spots from the cold.

There was nothing left of the artist in them.

In contrast, because of my profession, I was meticulous about caring for my hands.

My skin was perfect, my fingers long and elegant, not even a single rough edge to be found.

Julian's gaze flickered between our hands.

The shock and disappointment in his eyes could hardly be hidden.

"How could this happen?" he muttered.

He seemed unable to accept it.

Penelope, whom he once saw as untouchable, pampered, and perfect, how could she become like this?

And me, he once dismissed as "rough and tough", was living a life that's way out of his league.

I was gripping Dominic's hand and said, "Let's go."

I didn't want to watch this farce anymore.

I added, "It's stuffy in here."

Dominic nodded, took my bag with one hand, and led me out with the other.

As I passed by Julian, I stopped for a while.

It wasn't to catch up or reminisce. I just wanted to make things a bit harder for him.

"Julian," I said as I pointed at the vomit bag in Penelope's hand, which was nearly overflowing.

A mocking smile tugged at my lips.