Chapter 1

While I was cleaning the new place, I lost my footing on the ladder and fell.

It hurt so much, but my first instinct was still to text Bartholomew Harding.

"I slipped just now while I was wiping the windows. But then I thought about how this is going to be our home, and it made me really happy."

I stared at my phone. Nothing came.

Hours passed before his reply finally arrived.

"What's the point of telling me this? You want me to feel sorry for you? One round of emotional blackmail wasn't enough for you?"

I froze.

My marriage to Bartholomew had been arranged by his grandmother.

Two years ago I'd saved Cheryl Harding by chance, and she knew I'd always liked him. To repay me, she decided the two of us would marry.

There was no trace of happiness on his face. But he didn't refuse either.

From that day on, though, he despised emotional blackmail, and he hated any show of weakness. All I could do was try desperately to prove I wasn't doing either.

When he ran a fever, I stayed up all night looking after him, and never said a word even when I felt terrible myself. Whatever trouble I hit at work, I solved on my own. Even for things he could have fixed with a single word, I never once let myself look weak in front of him.

A post popped up on my phone. It was from Peggy Summers, the actress his company was pushing right now, their brightest young star. A photo of a bleeding finger.

The caption read: 【Pricked my finger while making a gift for a certain someone. The moment I told him, he was so worried he came straight over to check on me.】

At the edge of the picture I could see the hem of a man's shirt. I recognized it in a single glance. It was Bartholomew.

And suddenly I understood that this relationship had been wrong from the very start.

1.

After my wound was dressed, I stepped out of the exam room and ran straight into Bartholomew and Peggy.

He was holding her hand, studying with great care a cut so tiny it was almost invisible.

"The doctor already said it's fine. There was really no need to come to the hospital. You're worrying over nothing." Peggy pouted playfully.

"You got hurt because of me. How could I not worry? Don't do things like this anymore." His voice was calm, but it carried a doting warmth I had never once heard from him.

"Ever since I joined the company you've taken such good care of me, always giving me the best opportunities first. I just wanted to thank you a little."

"I'm backing you because you're worth it. Just behave, don't cause trouble for me and make me worry, that's all I ask."

"When have I ever caused trouble? Haven't I always done what you said?"

Bartholomew smiled, and his voice went gentle. "Last time you made me a cake and nearly blew up the kitchen. I was so worried I flew back home overnight. Before that you cut your finger cooking for me and I spent three days coaxing you. Now you've pricked your finger again... isn't that enough?"

"When you get hurt because of me, I can't feel the least bit happy. Do you understand?"

The air was warm, and yet I felt as cold as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice water over me.

All these years, I had never dared voice a thought like that in front of Bartholomew.

When we first got together, I tried too. I learned to cook for him, learned to take care of him. When I got hurt I'd act sweet and hope for a little concern from him.

But he always said, flatly, "I never asked you to do any of this for me."

Then last year, I stayed up several nights putting together a birthday gift for him and ended up getting sick.

At his birthday, I let it slip: "Getting all this ready took a lot of time, and I even got sick over it. But as long as you're happy, that's all that matters."

He seemed to reach his breaking point. He smashed the cake I'd spent so long preparing onto the floor and said, furious, "Do you always have to play the pitiful one? Always have to take the moral high ground so everyone feels guilty and gives in? You used emotional blackmail on my grandmother to end up with me. Don't ever expect me to feel sorry for you."

After that, I never let him see a single vulnerable side of me again.

Last month Bartholomew came down with the flu and his fever wouldn't break. Taking care of him, I went several days without a decent night's sleep.

Later he recovered, but I was the one who collapsed. I just made up an excuse to stay at a friend's place for two days, and once I was better I came back acting as if nothing had happened.

I was afraid he'd find me tiresome, afraid he'd think I was making him feel guilty on purpose, and I knew he'd never be pleased by anyone sacrificing for him.

And yet now, he had turned to another person and said: You got hurt because of me. How could I not worry?

Just as I was lost in the thought, Peggy's voice broke through it.

"Regina Fox, why are you here? Did you get hurt?"

Bartholomew cut her off, impatient. "She's a doctor herself. What could possibly be wrong with her? Don't go worrying about other people."

Only then did his gaze fall on me. "Once you're done, go home early. Peggy's hurt and it's hard for her to get around, so I need to see her back."

The moment he finished, he took Peggy's hand and left.

I was the "other people" he spoke of, the one who didn't need looking after even when she was hurt.

I watched his retreating figure. From high school until now, I had followed that figure for ten years. It seemed no different from the first time I ever saw it, and yet somehow everything had changed.