Chapter 2

Chloe turned, slipped into the room, and picked up the call.

"Ethan, you miss me that much?"

"Then come over today, please?"

The male voice was silent for a moment, then agreed.

"But no staying overnight, okay?"

"I'll make it up to you next time."

I froze, mechanically putting on my mask and gloves.

A voice in my head screamed, desperately telling me it was just a coincidence, just a similar name and voice...

I pulled out my phone and opened my chat with Ethan Vance. The last message was him wishing me a happy birthday.

I quickly typed a few words:

[What time do you get off work today?]

Then, I turned off my screen and started working.

Chloe's coy, flirty voice from her call kept drifting into my ears, but I pretended not to hear it.

Usually, time flies when I'm working, but today, seconds felt like hours.

By dinnertime, the living room was already tidy.

I adjusted my expression. "Ms. Miller, your order was for two days. I'll come back tomorrow to organize the bedroom."

Chloe saw the spotless living room and grabbed my hand, her eyes sparkling. "Wow, thank you!"

"Hehe, my boyfriend is coming over soon, and he'll be so happy to see the place clean."

"Though tonight, he's going to have me pinned down again..."

I forced an unnatural smile and left the apartment.

Pulling out my phone, I saw Ethan had only replied to my message five minutes ago.

[Overtime at the office today. Can't have dinner together. I'll be back late.]

Overtime again...

He started his own law firm six months ago and often didn't come home until midnight.

But I never worried, after all, Ethan was sexually unresponsive.

He would even vomit uncontrollably if he was intimate with a woman.

I gripped my phone tightly, letting out a long breath, trying to calm the bitter wave rising in my chest.

Just then, Ethan's second message came through:

[Honey, happy birthday. I know organizing involves a lot of bending over, so I specially ordered you a massage chair. It's already been delivered home. Sorry I can't be with you tonight. Once this busy period is over, I'll make it up to you properly.]

Seeing the words "make it up to you," my eyes welled up.

Ethan was always so thoughtful.

For three years, no matter how busy he was, he always kept my well-being in mind.

How could a man like that be the same man who was flirting with another woman on the phone just now?

I must be too tired lately, my nerves are shot, I misheard.

That night, I returned home to find a huge massage chair sitting quietly in the living room.

I lay down, feeling the relief on my back, and that little flicker of doubt in my heart vanished.

I habitually opened Instagram, just scrolling casually before bed.

Suddenly, a newly posted update popped into my view. It was from today's client, Chloe Miller.

It was an intimate photo, not showing faces, just a man and woman intertwined in dim light. The caption read:

[He said this was his way of making it up to me.]

My breathing instantly hitched.

In the photo, the man was tightly embracing the girl's waist, and on the back of his hand, gripping the bedsheet, there was a dark brown scar.

That scar, I would never mistake it in this lifetime.

Three years ago, after my night shift, I was dragged and sexually assaulted by several strangers.

It was Ethan Vance, passing by, who fought desperately to save me. That scar was left when he took a blow for me then.

Later, I suffered from severe depression and wanted to die.

He, as my lawyer, stood by me to win the case, sending the bad guys to prison, and pulling me out of the abyss.

It was natural for us to become a couple.

But for these three years, every time things got intimate, right at the last step, Ethan would suddenly rush into the bathroom and vomit violently.

He'd apologize to me with a pale face, saying he had a psychological barrier.

Because I felt for him, and because I was grateful to him, I never doubted him for a second. I even thought a sexless marriage for life was fine.

But now, this man was sweating it out on another woman's bed.

I trembled all over, my stomach churning.

With trembling hands, I screenshotted the post and sent it to Ethan, exactly as it was.

My fingers stiffly typed a few words:

[When you're with her, don't you feel like throwing up?]