Chapter 3

Marcus looked at Amber's tears, his face dark with anger.

He didn't even ask me a single question. He grabbed my wrist, gripping so hard it felt like he'd crush my bones.

"Claire! That's enough!"

He roared, his eyes full of fury and disappointment.

"I know you're resentful, but what did Amber ever do to you?"

"She's innocent, just trying to get along with you. And you? Look what you've become!"

"Spiteful, vicious. Weren't you afraid you could've hurt Amber pushing her like that? Apologize! Apologize to Amber right now!"

The guests whispered among themselves, their eyes full of contempt for me.

"I heard last time she threw a fit for days just because Amber mentioned her sagging."

"Women, after thirty, they're all like this. Sensitive and paranoid."

"Amber's so young and beautiful, of course she's jealous."

I used all my strength to pry his fingers off me, one by one.

"Let. Go."

He froze, apparently not expecting me to fight back.

"Marcus, this kind of stunt is eight hundred years old. Only you would fall for it."

Marcus turned red with rage. Amber made a show of trying to calm things:

"Maybe Claire's just in a bad mood. I'm fine. The dress can be washed..."

"It's a limited edition! It can't be washed clean!"

Marcus got even angrier. He yanked his hand away forcefully. I stumbled backward, my back hitting the wall.

I slowly slid down to the floor, a sharp pain in my lower abdomen.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital.

Marcus's eyes were bloodshot.

"You were pregnant—why didn't you tell me earlier!"

I shook my head,

"What would be the point? After I gave birth, would you just start making jokes about my breast milk, my stretch marks, my loose belly?"

Marcus's expression froze.

"Why are you taking jokes so seriously?"

"Jokes?"

I looked at him,

"Every time you said my body had gone to hell, that I couldn't compare to younger women, that I was an old hag—those were all jokes?"

"Last time I spoke without thinking!"

He said urgently,

"I was wrong, I apologize. Whatever exercise you want to do, I'll support you. I'll pay for the most expensive personal trainer, the most expensive beauty treatments, okay?"

He reached out to touch my face. I turned away.

He came closer, hugging me from behind:

"Are you really that angry? I was wrong, I was wrong. I won't drink anymore."

"Can I make it up to you properly now?"

His hand slid down habitually.

"Claire, we should have a baby."

I closed my eyes.

"Marcus, I'm tired. I want some peace."

He muttered: "Fine, whatever."

Ten years as a housewife. Every day grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning.

All our friends praised how warm and cozy our home was.

Exhausted until my hands were covered in calluses.

But in Marcus's eyes, I was just a maid who slept with him.

The next afternoon, Marcus came back, with Amber following behind him.

"Claire, I'm sorry."

Her eyes were red and swollen, like she'd been crying for hours,

"I hope you can forgive me."

Her attitude was impeccably sincere.

Marcus said:

"Amber felt so guilty she hasn't eaten all day. She insisted on coming to see you. Claire, she's apologized like this, just let it go."

I looked at the two of them, one handsome and wealthy, one young and beautiful, standing together like a poster for a romance series.

And me, lying in a hospital bed, pale-faced, body out of shape, the picture of a bitter wife.