Chapter 2

Ethan didn't argue with me the day I found the death certificate.

The rain outside the villa was heavy, streaking down the floor-to-ceiling windows. He sat across from me at the dining table, meticulously cutting my steak. The blade scraped softly against the white porcelain, a subtle, teeth-grinding sound.

His movements were elegant, his expression focused, his tone as gentle as if nothing had happened, as if our seven-day cold war didn't exist at all.

"Summer, you've been too stressed lately, always paranoid and jumpy. Eat this meat, it'll do you good."

I looked at the bloody steak, my stomach churned, but I didn't touch it.

"Ethan, I'm not stressed, I'm going to stop my medication. Those pills make me so drowsy all day, I can barely tell the difference in reagent colors anymore."

He looked up at me, and that familiar, suffocating pity immediately surfaced in his deep eyes. It was a condescending gaze, like he was looking at a terminally ill, irrational madwoman.

"Stopping medication isn't a small matter, Summer. Your doctor said your nerves are extremely fragile right now. We'll talk about it when your mood is a bit more stable."

I'd heard that sentence too many times. Every time I tried to break free from this web he'd woven, he would use that gentle tone to press me back into the cage he called "severe depression."

I didn't want to argue with him anymore because I knew the only outcome would be me being forcibly injected with a sedative. I gave him a cold glance, then got up and went back to the bedroom.

The cold war lasted for seven days.

During those days, he said the approval for a new targeted drug at his company required him to work through the night, so he barely came home. In this empty villa, it was just me and a few maids who came to clean on schedule, never saying more than a word to me. I didn't ask where he went, nor did I answer his calls.

That morning, I sat in the living room, organizing the pharmacology manuscripts my mother had left behind. Those manuscripts were my only solace, the only real thing I could grasp onto in this cold house. The doorbell suddenly rang, urgent and sharp.

I opened the door to find two people in white coats, with police officers behind them.

"Hello, are you Ms. Summer Reed?"

I nodded, a faint unease rising in my heart.

One of the officers glanced inside, his gaze lingering for a moment on the scattered manuscripts on the table. His tone softened, carrying a professional, yet sympathetic air.

"Your husband reported that after you stopped your medication, you've shown severe self-destructive tendencies, accompanied by persecutory delusions, and even hoarded dangerous chemicals at home. We're here to verify the situation."

I froze, blood rushing to my head.

Self-destructive tendencies? Hoarding dangerous chemicals?

I'd been home these past seven days, doing nothing but reading and organizing manuscripts. All I did was not answer Ethan's calls or reply to his messages.

Just as I was about to explain, the elevator door suddenly opened.

Ethan rushed out, his usually immaculately styled hair now a little disheveled, his white shirt collar slightly open. His eyes were red, and his chest heaved, as if he'd run all the way up.

He pushed past the officers and pulled me into a suffocating embrace, his grip so tight I could barely breathe. His voice was hoarse, thick with lingering fear.

"Summer, you scared me to death! How could you lock the door from the inside? Do you know how worried I was that you'd do something foolish?"

My body stiffened, a chill starting in my stomach and spreading through my entire body.

The officers and doctors visibly relaxed, even showing a hint of respect for Ethan.

Ethan released me and turned to explain to them, his voice calm, controlled, yet radiating endless exhaustion.

"I apologize for the trouble, officers. Her mental state hasn't been good recently. Last night, she even sent messages saying someone was poisoning her food, and this morning, surveillance showed her searching for weed killer. I was so worried she'd have an accident, I had no choice but to call for your help."

I snapped my head up, staring intently at his flawless face.

"When did I ever send messages like that? What weed killer? Ethan, you're lying!"

He looked at me, his gaze almost helplessly gentle, and even reached out to smooth a stray wisp of hair behind my ear.

"Summer, don't try to act tough in front of the doctors. I know you're in pain. Let's get you better, okay?"

That's when I understood.

He wasn't explaining.

He was making a diagnosis for me.

The more I denied it, the more I seemed to be losing control.

The angrier I got, the more I appeared mentally unstable.

Before the doctors left, they tactfully reminded me to take my medication on time and handed me a business card, saying that if I resisted home treatment, I could consider forced hospitalization for inpatient intervention.

After the door closed, silence returned to the villa.

I shoved Ethan away, my voice trembling. "What exactly do you want?"

He stood still, looking down at me, the worried curve of his lips slowly smoothing out. His voice was a low sigh.

"I'm just afraid of losing you, Summer."

Three years ago, I would have softened.

But now, I just felt cold. Bone-chilling cold.

That night, I opened my phone, and a new message from my father-in-law, Arthur Vance, was in the family Snapchat group.

"Summer's condition has relapsed recently. She almost had an accident today, thankfully Ethan found out in time. Please don't upset her, contact Ethan first if you need anything. The poor child has suffered so much."

A row of agreeing comments followed.

"Ethan, you work so hard, stuck with a daughter-in-law like this."

"Summer is just unlucky, it's a blessing she married Ethan, anyone else would have abandoned her long ago."

"No hurdle is too big for a married couple, she needs to be sent to the hospital for treatment immediately."

I stared at the screen, my fingertips tightening until my knuckles turned white.

Immediately after, my phone buzzed with several cold system notifications:

"Your medical account has been accessed from another location."

"Your health insurance card attempted to bind to a new device."

"Your cloud medical records enabled family sharing."

"Your smart pill box record sync failed, showing multiple unauthorized openings."

I sat in the living room, suddenly feeling the silence was terrifying, every tick of the clock felt like a countdown.

Those actions weren't just to steal my money or simply monitor me.

They were creating a flawless electronic trail.

To prove that I had experienced an episode, sought help, been confused, lost control.

Ethan wasn't acting on impulse.

He had already started creating a trajectory of "severe depressive episode, mental breakdown" for me. He was weaving a death trap everyone would believe.