Chapter 2

Evelyn Reed POV

I had just finished a surgery. I peeled off my gloves, wearily rubbing my temples.

As the youngest Associate Director of Urology at a top New York hospital, I was long accustomed to high-intensity work.

The moment I pushed open my office door, a jacket with a familiar perfume scent was draped over my shoulders.

Nate Thorne stood behind me, holding a lunchbox, his eyes so tender they could drown you: "Evelyn, did the surgery go well? Did you skip lunch again?"

For three years, Nate had doted on me, making me the envy of every socialite in New York.

He would cancel transnational meetings to be with me when I worked night shifts. If I casually mentioned "wanting to see the ocean," he'd charter a private jet that very night to take me to Los Angeles. He respected my profession, even donating an entire urology research center in my name.

Aside from the fact that during intimacy he always preferred to hold me tightly from behind, insistently demanding I repeat his name and never close my eyes, he was almost a perfect husband.

I once believed I was the luckiest woman in the world.

Until three days ago, when my younger brother, Caleb, suffered acute renal failure complicated by cardiac arrest.

That day, New York was hit by a rare torrential downpour. I knelt outside the emergency room, my hands covered in Caleb's blood, trembling as I dialed Nate's number.

Caleb had a rare blood type, and only Nate's private medical facility's blood bank had a matching supply.

I made ninety-nine calls.

Every single one was cut off. Finally, his phone went straight to voicemail.

Caleb stopped breathing at 3 AM. I didn't even have the strength to cry, sitting stiffly outside the door like a shell drained of its soul.

My phone screen lit up. It was a photo from Nate's personal assistant. Perhaps an accident, perhaps intentional.

In the picture, the streets of San Francisco were bathed in bright sunshine. Nate had shed his suit, wearing a casual white shirt, tightly embracing a woman in a white dress.

Her face was buried in his chest, and Nate, head bowed, was kissing her hair. The fervor in his eyes, the relief of having something lost finally found, was something I'd never witnessed in our three years together.

The woman's name was Sophia Smith.

She was Nate's first love, and the student he had funded for ten years.

The cold draft in the hallway chilled my thin dress to the bone. I repeatedly zoomed in on the photo, meticulously examining every detail, suddenly feeling a wave of nausea. I leaned against the wall, dry-heaving.

So that was it.

He wasn't busy.

He was simply with the woman he truly loved.

Nate returned to New York the day after Caleb's funeral.

He pushed open the front door and saw me sitting on the sofa, noticeably thinner, with sunken eyes. I saw a flicker of panic in Nate's eyes.

He hurried over, pulling me into his embrace, his voice thick with self-reproach: "Evelyn, I'm so sorry. There was an emergency at the San Francisco branch; I flew over immediately. My phone fell in the water and broke. I couldn't be with you for Caleb's funeral, and it's all my fault."

He kissed my forehead, his tone humble: "You can hit me, yell at me, whatever you want, any compensation, I'll give it to you."

I didn't struggle, letting him hold me. My face rested against his expensive shirt, and I caught a faint scent of rose perfume that wasn't mine.

It was Sophia's favorite scent.

It felt like a piece had been brutally gouged from my heart, a pain so profound it left me numb. I calmly pushed him away, took two documents from my bag, flipped to the last page, and handed him a pen.

"Nate, I just need you to sign these two documents."

Nate exhaled in relief. Without even glancing at them, he signed his name on both papers.

"Evelyn, what's mine is yours. Forget signing; I'd give you my life." He smiled, touching my stomach. "You've been throwing up a lot lately. Are you having stomach issues? I'll take you to the hospital for a check-up tomorrow."

I looked at the signed documents, my eyes devoid of all emotion.

"No need," I stood up, my voice as light as a whisper, "I'll go by myself."