Chapter 2

"You really think I can't live without you?"

Holt's voice came from behind me, laced with wounded pride.

I didn't turn around. I pulled open the door.

Just then, a mud-covered stray dog suddenly burst in from the hallway and lunged straight at Holt.

Muddy water splattered all over his custom-tailored suit pants.

I stopped and waited to watch him explode.

Holt had severe OCD.

In the past, even after I'd showered three times at work and changed into completely fresh clothes, if he detected even the faintest trace of disinfectant on me, he'd wrinkle his nose and tell me to stay away.

Once, after I'd worked on a highly decomposed body, I came home and just wanted a hug. He shoved me away and spent two hours washing his hands in disgust.

But now, looking at the mud on his pants, he only frowned for a second.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Holt. I just found this puppy downstairs. He's so naughty."

Priscilla quickly crouched down and pulled out tissues to wipe the mud.

Holt actually smiled.

Not only did he not get angry, he reached out and petted the filthy dog's head.

"It's fine. It's sweet that you care about animals, Priscilla. It's just a suit."

He even took her hand—the one holding the tissue—and their eyes met with warmth.

I stood in the doorway watching this cozy "family of three" scene, and a wave of nausea hit my stomach.

So he never had OCD at all.

He simply found me disgusting. He despised me. He looked down on my profession and my identity from the bottom of his heart.

The comments scrolled across the screen:

[What a hypocrite. His OCD was fake. He just never loved her.]

[Look how easily he touches that dog. Makes me sick.]

[Fiona's eyes are so cold. She's completely done with him.]

"Fiona, you don't mind if I keep the puppy here, do you?"

Priscilla held the dog and looked at me innocently.

"Do whatever you want."

I pulled my suitcase toward the exit, but Holt grabbed my wrist.

"There's a limit to throwing tantrums. Stay and have dinner."

Without giving me a choice, he dragged me back to the dining room and pushed me into a chair.

The table was covered with high-end restaurant delivery—all seafood that Priscilla loved.

Holt put on disposable gloves and expertly began peeling a shrimp.

He placed the peeled shrimp meat into Priscilla's bowl, his tone indulgent.

"Your hands are too delicate. Don't let the shells cut you."

I watched his smooth, practiced movements.

Two years ago, I'd accidentally cut my right hand while slicing fruit. I needed three stitches.

That night at dinner, I asked him to peel a shrimp for me.

He slammed down his knife and fork, his face full of irritation.

"You handle scalpels all day and you can't even peel a shrimp?"

"Fiona Harvey, could you be any more melodramatic?"

Now, he was willingly peeling an entire plate of shrimp for another woman.

"Fiona, why aren't you eating?"

Priscilla munched on shrimp and smiled at me.

"Is the food not to your taste? I guess when you see so much stuff at work, it's hard to have an appetite."

Holt didn't even look up, still peeling crab.

"That's just how lifeless she is. Ignore her."

I put down my fork and stood up.

"Have you had enough fun watching?" Holt glanced at me coldly.

"If you're done, clean up the table."