Chapter 2

At the immigration office, the clerk handed me a form. “Your visa should be ready in two weeks.”

I thanked them, and by the time I walked out the door, dusk had already settled.

I returned to Liam's villa.

For the past three years, I had lived here to better care for him.

I'd foolishly believed this place was home. My carefully chosen slippers still sat by the door, the succulents I’d nurtured lined the living room, and my handwritten 'Stomach-Friendly Recipes' were taped proudly in the kitchen.

Now, I was about to systematically erase every trace of myself.

As I packed my suitcase, I found a photo at the bottom of a drawer.

It was taken the day Liam successfully completed his rehabilitation. He'd actually *smiled* for the camera – a rare sight – and I stood beside him, my eyes crinkling into happy crescent moons.

The edges of the photo were already soft with age, worn from my countless touches.

I stared at the picture for a long time, then gently tossed it into the trash.

Some dreams, I realized, were always meant to end.

The next morning, Liam's call came through.

“I forgot my stomach medication. Can you bring it to the office?” His voice was a rough, morning-hoarse whisper, his tone as natural as if nothing had happened last night.

I paused for two seconds. “Okay.”

When I arrived at the company, the elevator doors opened, and I ran into Genevieve walking out, carrying a rather fancy bento box.

“What a coincidence?” Genevieve smiled brightly. “I'm bringing Liam lunch. Want to join us?”

I didn't answer, following her into his office.

Liam was looking at documents. Seeing us enter together, his eyebrow arched subtly. “How did you two end up together?”

“Ran into each other on the way,” Genevieve said, smiling as she opened the bento box. The potent, fiery scent of spicy stir-fry instantly wafted through the air. “I made your favorite spicy stir-fry!”

My face paled instantly. “His stomach can't handle anything spicy!”

Liam glanced at me, then picked up his fork. “It's fine, just for once.”

He speared a piece of beef glistening with chili oil and ate it, his expression unreadable.

My knuckles whitened as I clutched the stomach medication in my purse.

Not long after, a fine sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, and his fingers, gripping his pen, trembled almost imperceptibly.

“Liam? Are you not feeling well?” Genevieve asked, worried.

“I'm fine,” Liam forced a smile. “I have work. You two should go.”

I gave him a long, deep look, silently placed the medication on his desk, and turned to leave.

Walking downstairs, I couldn't help but say, “His stomach condition is serious. Maybe be more careful when bringing him food in the future.”

Genevieve suddenly laughed. “Sera, do you still not understand your place?”

“To Liam, you're just a special kind of caregiver, so you *have* to remember these things. But I'm different. He loves me, so I don't need to be so careful.”

She leaned in closer, her red lips barely an inch from my ear. “Even if I gave him poison, he'd still take it. Understand?”

My fingertips trembled, my heart felt like it was being ripped from my chest.

I knew Genevieve wasn't wrong.

It took me three years just to get Liam to spare me a second glance.

Genevieve, however, didn't have to do anything at all, and he'd willingly swallow poison for her.

That evening, Liam returned, looking terrifyingly pale.

I was in the kitchen pouring water when I heard the commotion and turned around, almost dropping the glass in my hand.

“You didn't take your medicine?” My voice was tight.

“It was too bad. I had to go to the hospital to get my stomach pumped,” Liam said weakly, collapsing onto the sofa, the fringe of hair on his forehead damp with cold sweat.

My hand shook, and scalding hot water splashed onto the back of my hand, instantly turning it red.

Did he love Genevieve so much he'd risk a stomach pump just to eat *her* cooking?

I brought him a glass of warm water, kneeling beside him to gently rub his stomach.

Liam finished the water, and under my soothing touch, his furrowed brow finally relaxed. He leaned against my shoulder, half-asleep.

Just like so many times before.

But this time, I didn't linger, didn't trace the lines of his face with longing.

I gently laid him back on the sofa, covered him with a blanket, and went upstairs without a backward glance.