Chapter 1

At the wedding, for the second time, I picked the wrong man in the "blindfolded groom" game.

Leopold took off his suit jacket in front of everyone, left me standing there again, and said coldly:

"Ivy, the day you can finally recognize me is the day we get married."

He always stood there in the crowd, letting Bradley put on his clothes and spray on the same cologne, and watched me throw myself at him like a fool.

That day, it was Bradley who took the hand of the girl who'd been left behind:

"Ivy, don't cry. Be with me. I'll never leave you."

I believed him.

But after we married, Bradley was anxious and clinging, testing me over and over, forcing me to prove my love in every way he could think of.

I'd be sitting in a conference room signing a contract worth millions, and he'd call and pressure me to come to him, or else it meant I didn't love him.

When I had a fever of 102, he shook me awake in the middle of the night to ask whether I loved him or Leopold.

Every time, I would cup his face in my hands, look into his eyes, and tell him with complete sincerity:

"Bradley, I only love you."

I thought that as long as I loved him well, his insecurity would ease a little more with each passing day.

Then, on our third anniversary, I got another call from my assistant:

"Ms. Baxter, Mr. Weiss went to see that junior secretary of his again to make you jealous. You'd better go bring him home."

I looked out the window and suddenly felt utterly exhausted.

So it turned out that the love I had struggled so hard to prove was, to him, nothing but one spiteful game after another.

Section 1

The phone screen was still lit, and my assistant was still talking:

"Ms. Baxter, Mr. Weiss says you need to get there within ten minutes, or else—"

He didn't finish, but I knew.

Or else Bradley would refuse to eat, give me the silent treatment, lock himself in his room and ignore everyone, until I dropped everything and rushed back to coax him, groveling.

I stood in the dining room, looking at the pot of pork ribs that had been reheated three times and the six-week pregnancy test result on the table, and rubbed my eyes.

I'd left the house at six that morning, sat through seven meetings, signed three contracts, hadn't had a single bite of lunch—all so I could hurry home to tell him the good news that I was pregnant, and to spend our third anniversary together.

But he didn't care.

My phone buzzed again. My assistant had sent a photo.

The bar was dimly lit, and Bradley and his junior secretary, Freya, were drinking a cross-arm toast.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, grabbed my car keys, and walked out.

On the way, my assistant sent another message:

"Ms. Baxter, the client isn't satisfied with the contract terms and would like a video call tonight to discuss it further."

Steering with one hand, I replied with a single word:

"Fine."

When I got to the bar, I spotted Bradley in the corner at a glance.

Freya was still sitting on his lap. When he saw me coming, Bradley looked up at me and pulled Freya closer.

In the past, I would have smashed a glass, lost my composure, made a scene that turned every head in the bar—made him feel that I was jealous to the point of madness.

But now, looking at this, I couldn't say a single word.

Bradley must have sensed something was off with me, because he started to get up.

Just then, Freya leaned close to his ear and whispered something. He paused, then slowly settled back into the couch, a faint half-smile curving his lips.

I stood where I was and took a deep breath:

"Bradley, are you coming home or not?"

He tipped his face up, as if he'd finally been waiting for this moment:

"I can come back..."

"But you have to bow to Freya in front of everyone and say, 'Will you give my husband back to me?'"

Freya sat on his lap, laughing so hard her shoulders shook.

A few onlookers around them couldn't resist chiming in:

"I bet Ivy does it. Last time, Bradley made her delete every man in her phone's contacts in front of a whole table of people. She did it without a word, going through the list one by one. When she got to her brother, the look on her face was priceless."

"There was an even better one. Bradley got drunk and swore she still had Leopold in her heart, and threw their wedding rings into the moat, saying, 'If you don't find the ring, you don't love me.' And she actually went—in the dead of winter—searching that river for two days and two nights. She nearly died."

Listening to them, I suddenly felt like laughing.

The water really had been so cold back then; my body went so numb I couldn't feel a thing. And yet I'd still been thinking, if I just find it, he'll stop making a fuss.

How stupid.

I looked at him and asked once more:

"Bradley, I'll ask you one last time—are you coming back or not?"

He leaned back into the couch, the same expression on his face, and drawled lazily:

"Didn't I just say it? You—"

Before he could finish, I had already turned around and walked straight out.

The night wind rushed into my collar. I pulled open the car door, got in, and started the engine.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Bradley chase out after me, standing at the bar entrance, shouting something.

But this time, I didn't stop.