Chapter 2

I was lying on my side, lights off, just about to fall asleep, when suddenly, the lights flicked back on.

Edward stood in the doorway, his pajamas wrinkled. His brows were furrowed, his eyes dark, and his voice was hoarse. "Olivia, you've been acting strange today."

His usually gentle and obedient wife was no longer taking care of him like a devoted maid. Only then did he realize something was off.

Back then, I kept lying to myself, convincing myself that Edward just didn't know how to love.

Just like the old folks back in the compound used to say, "Edward is so gifted, so of course, he's bound to be a little self-absorbed."

Geniuses were always lonely.

Back when we were kids, Edward always had this distant look in his eyes, like he was worlds apart from everyone else. But with looks like his, every girl in the compound was secretly crushing on him.

Every love letter he got was turned down cold, except mine. Mine was the only one he ever accepted.

Every time Edward walked by me, his eyes skipped over all the kids playing around, only to land on me for a brief moment.

So, I let myself believe that maybe I was a little different in his eyes.

My heart ached a little at the thought. Before I knew it, I blurted out, "Edward, why did you choose me back then?"

Even if he liked me just a little, at least, I wouldn't have felt so pathetic for these past ten years.

Edward froze for a second, rubbing his forehead. "I needed someone to share my life with. I knew you well enough, and you were sensible and gentle. You were the most suitable."

The tension in my heart finally gave way.

I wiped my eyes, hiding my tears, and managed a bitter smile. "Alright. Let's get a divorce—"

Before I could finish, the urgent ring of his phone cut me off.

Edward glanced at his phone, and his face suddenly tightened up. "Hey, Claire. Yeah, I got it. I'll be right there."

He hung up, didn't spare me a single word or look, just threw on some clothes and hurried out.

Right as the door clicked shut, I finally heard him murmur, "Claire is sick. I'm going to take care of her."

Out of nowhere, memories from my previous life came flooding back. I was burning up with a fever, barely conscious, and reached out to stop Edward from heading to his studio.

He felt my forehead, and then said with a straight face, "Your temperature is really high. That sickly flush on your cheeks...

"Too bad the lighting isn't right. Next time you're running a fever, I'll try painting you in the morning light."

And with that, he just left me behind and disappeared into his studio.

So he did have a heart, just not for me.

No matter how hard I tried to wipe them away, the tears just wouldn't stop.

A few days later, Edward came back.

Claire was by his side, looking all pale and fragile, clinging to him like she might collapse any second. But the look in her eyes was pure defiance.

Edward said coolly, "The painting still isn't done, and Claire's condition matters. She doesn't have anyone here, so it's best if she stays with us while she recovers."

I just shrugged, looking like I couldn't care less. "Whatever. It's your place anyway."

As I turned to leave, he grabbed my wrist and ordered, "Go make that lemon ale you made for me when I was sick last time."

He always acted like my kindness was just something he was entitled to. Now he could just pass it on to someone else, like it meant nothing at all.

I yanked my wrist free, my words clipped and cold. "Why do I have to?"

It was rare that I'd bruised his ego. Edward's face darkened with anger. "She needs to get better soon so I can—"

I cut him off. "So what? What does that have to do with me?"

Edward was really pissed, his breathing getting heavier. "Fine. It has nothing to do with you."

He didn't even bother to ask me and just made all the arrangements for Claire to move into our house.

Since I'd stopped cooking for anyone but myself, Edward had no choice but to awkwardly fumble his way through the kitchen for her.

It was laughable. Ten years together, and I'd never even tasted a cup of coffee he made for me.

They sat together on the couch, flipping through oil painting catalogs, looking every bit like a couple.

But back when I asked Edward to watch a show with me, he'd just brush me off and say coldly, "I'm busy."

As I walked past them without even glancing their way, Edward wasn't himself.

He'd deliberately raise his voice when talking to Claire, his eyes locked on me.

Whenever I turned around, he'd nervously take a sip of water, pretending nothing was up.

Maybe he just wasn't used to days without someone looking after him.