Chapter 3

Just then, Ethan's phone alarm went off.

He closed his laptop, didn't even glance at me, stood up, and left.

I instinctively called out, "Ethan, my hand..."

He stopped and looked back at my swollen hand.

"Time's up. I have an important industry conference this afternoon."

Then he turned and walked away.

The nurse, unable to watch anymore, pressed the call button for me.

An elderly woman in the next bed handed me a hot water bottle. "Here, dear, use mine."

The doctor and nurses rushed over, changing my IV and treating the allergic reaction.

I lay alone in the hospital bed, enduring the worst hours.

By evening, the fever finally broke a little.

I leaned against the headboard, mindlessly scrolling through my phone.

On Instagram, Madison had posted several updates that afternoon.

Every post showed Ethan playing with her golden retriever.

In the photos, his face showed a smile, patient and focused.

I looked at the swelling on my hand that still hadn't gone down and the bruises left by the IV.

Then I opened a secondhand trading platform.

I listed the matching smartwatch Ethan had specially customized for me.

That electronic shackle designed to accommodate all his schedules, reminding me every moment what I should be doing.

I didn't need it anymore.

After leaving the hospital, I packed up everything I'd bought according to Ethan's preferences, one by one.

His preferences, the rules he'd set, his whole aesthetic—all went into boxes.

The apartment was half empty, but I felt an indescribable lightness.

At dawn, when Ethan got up, he didn't find the glass of water at the perfect 113-degree temperature on his nightstand.

Walking into the closet, there was no ironed shirt either.

He habitually checked his watch. "Your slacking today has delayed my morning routine by eight minutes."

I sat at the dining table, eating the pancakes and coffee he'd never allowed me to touch.

Steaming hot, it was a long-missed aroma of real food.

I didn't even look up. "That's your own problem."

Ethan's face darkened. He probably thought I was still throwing a tantrum about our anniversary.

He said nothing more, got his own water and found his own clothes with a cold face, then slammed the door on his way out.

That afternoon, the door lock clicked.

Ethan had brought Madison home.

He had a strong sense of territory and had set a hard rule against letting outsiders into the apartment.

Once my best friend was going through a breakup and came to stay for just one night, and he sent her away on the spot with a cold face.

But now, Madison was wearing my slippers, sitting on my couch as if she owned the place.

She held a box of ice cream.

Cream dripped onto the carpet, leaving large stains.

Ethan saw it. He just walked over and gently handed her a wet wipe.

"Be careful. Don't get it on your hands."

Not a hint of reproach.

But last time when I accidentally spilled a few drops of coffee, he threw away my entire coffee set.

Along with the coffee beans I'd painstakingly collected from all over the country.

I ignored them, continuing to pack my things, putting the last few books into a box.

Madison stood up curiously and walked straight into my studio.

"Wow, you're so talented."

The paint I'd arranged by color system according to Ethan's requirements was now a mess from her handling.

She held a cup of coffee, walking with interest toward my easel.

The next second, her hand tilted.

An entire cup of coffee spilled onto the painting I'd spent six months on.

That was my work. I'd prepared for half a year to enter it in a competition.

Hearing the commotion, Ethan came in. Seeing the mess everywhere, he blamed me first.