Chapter 2

That afternoon, I was reading in the study while Edward, who rarely worked from home, was there.

Selena came in with some urgent documents for him to sign. She carried a tray with two cups of coffee, one for Edward and one for me.

"Mrs. Ashford, your coffee," she said, her voice sickly sweet.

I reached out to take it, but just as my fingers neared the cup, Selena's hand suddenly slipped. The entire cup of scalding coffee spilled onto me.

The hot liquid soaked through my thin blouse, and my skin turned red instantly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Selena apologized hurriedly, but I caught a flash of spiteful satisfaction in her eyes.

She knew my condition, that I couldn't feel pain. She must have wanted to see me humiliated, or at least look panicked.

I glanced down at my drenched clothes and reddened skin and said calmly, "It's fine. It doesn't hurt."

As soon as I finished speaking, the atmosphere in the study seemed to freeze.

Edward looked up from his papers, his gaze lingering on my soaked clothes before turning to Selena, his eyes icy.

Selena's smile stiffened. She'd never seen Edward look at her like that before.

"Pack your things and go to payroll to collect your final paycheck," Edward said, his voice cold. "You're fired, effective immediately."

Selena's face went pale. "Mr. Ashford, I swear it was an accident. I didn't..."

"Whether it was intentional or not doesn't matter," Edward cut her off. "You hurt my wife."

Selena tried to argue, "But Mrs. Ashford said she's fine."

Edward stood up, his tall frame filling the room with an overwhelming presence. "Just because she said it doesn't hurt doesn't mean she's fine. Get out. Don't make me say it again."

Selena was escorted out of the villa by security.

Later, I heard that Edward didn't just fire her; he made sure she was blacklisted everywhere. No company would touch her. In the end, she was forced to leave the city for good.

That night, Edward came home early for once.

We ate dinner quietly, and only after the meal did Edward break the silence.

"Let me see your burn," he said.

I paused, a little surprised. "Burn?"

"The burn from the coffee this afternoon." His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.

My instinct was to refuse, but his look made me give in and hold out my arm.

The burn had already formed several blisters, glaringly obvious on my tender skin.

Edward's brow furrowed slightly. He got up, retrieved the first aid kit, carefully cleaned the burn, applied ointment, and bandaged it.

His movements were gentle and precise, as if he'd had professional training.

I couldn't help asking, "How do you know how to treat burns?"

"I picked up some first aid skills," he answered simply.

After he finished, he didn't leave. Instead, he sat down beside me.

"Claire," he called, for the first time using my name instead of "Ms. Wynn." "Just because you don't feel pain doesn't mean you haven't been hurt."

I froze, his words shitting something deep inside me.

All my life, people either coddled me or took advantage of my condition.

No one had ever told me so seriously that even if I couldn't feel it, the hurt was still real.

"Like right now," Edward went on, his voice low and steady. "I'll help you recognize when you're hurt, and teach you how to protect yourself."

That night, Edward stayed by my side.

In the days that followed, he seemed a different person. He started spending a lot more time at home, even shifting his work hours to be around.

He taught me how to recognize the signals my body sent: redness could mean overheating or an allergy, swelling might be a sprain or infection, and if my skin felt hot, it could be a sign of a fever.

"You have to use your eyes and other senses to spot what pain would normally warn you about," Edward explained. "Pain is an alarm system. Without it, you need to find your own way to catch problems before they get worse."

He began showing me all the hidden dangers around the house: how to use and store kitchen knives safely, how to keep the bathroom floor from getting slippery, and how to use household appliances safely.

Sometimes, he'd take my hand and guide me to feel surfaces at different temperatures, from barely warm, to hot enough to notice but not dangerous.

"This is a safe temperature," Edward said, pressing my palm against a cup of warm water.

"And this," he guided my hand close to a warmer cup, not quite touching it, "is the edge of danger. Any hotter, and it would burn you badly."

His hand rested over mine, and the warmth spread right through my skin. The feeling was weird, not pain, but a rush of nerves and thrills I'd never experienced before.

One day, I couldn't help but ask, "I've been wondering. Why are you suddenly so concerned about me? After all, ours is just a marriage of convenience."

Edward was quiet for a moment. "You're my wife, and protecting you is my duty."

It was a perfectly reasonable answer, but for some reason, a faint sense of disappointment flickered through me.