Chapter 2

By the third day of the countdown, I had completely retreated behind the safety line of our "contract."

Without my constant hovering, the atmosphere in the mansion had grown stiff.

That afternoon, I was sitting in a single armchair in the living room, using my tablet to finalize the transfer of my private assets.

Anna strolled in, practically draped over Ethan’s arm. She was whining, begging him to have his assistant order from a viral bakery downtown.

"Ethan, please? I heard their signature cake is amazing," Anna cooed, shaking his arm. "Oh, and make sure they add extra mango puree! I'm obsessed with mangoes."

Ethan, who was reading a financial report, frowned without looking up. "No mangoes. You're allergic."

The words left his mouth, and a dead silence fell over the living room.

Anna’s sugary smile froze. "Baby, what? I'm not allergic to mangoes."

Ethan stiffened. His head snapped up, his eyes shooting across the room to lock onto me.

Because I was the one with the severe mango allergy.

I didn't even blink. My finger continued to swipe casually across my tablet screen, completely unbothered.

Staring at my emotionless profile, Ethan’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard. A flash of pure panic crossed his eyes. He abruptly pulled his arm out of Anna’s grasp and yanked at his tie, suddenly looking suffocated.

"I have a meeting. Order it yourself," he snapped, turning and taking the stairs two at a time.

That night, eager to assert her dominance as the new lady of the house, Anna fired the estate's executive chef and ordered a lavish French dinner based entirely on her own cravings.

Raw oysters. Cold foie gras. Heavy, high-proof red wine.

By midnight, Ethan’s chronic stomach ulcer flared up with a vengeance.

Usually, the second he furrowed his brow, I would already be standing there with his prescription antacids and a glass of room-temperature water. I would sit by his side, massaging his abdomen until the pain subsided.

Tonight, there was no medication waiting outside the study. Just my polite knock.

Ethan was slumped in his leather desk chair, his face ashen, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. At the sound of my knock, his eyes flew open. For a split second, a desperate spark of relief hit his gaze.

I didn't step into the room.

Standing three feet away, I placed a printed internal directory on the bookshelf by the door.

"Ethan, I handed over your prescription schedule and your gastroenterologist's files to the Estate Manager yesterday," I said, my voice as calm as if I were speaking to a stranger. "If your ulcer is acting up, press 1 on the intercom. The staff will bring you your meds."

Ethan stared at me. The mask of arrogant control he always wore finally cracked.

"Lina..." his voice was a hoarse, ragged rasp.

I didn't answer. I pulled the study door shut.

Back in my room, I archived the last batch of my files. Through the thick walls, I could faintly hear Ethan’s muffled coughing and the frantic footsteps of the estate staff rushing down the hall.

I never opened my door.