"Don't believe the rumors they spread," Lyndon continued.
Claire bit her lower lip, hesitating just enough to make it look like she was the one being wronged. That expression alone seemed to please her.
But I couldn't bring myself to smile.
"Go ahead to the concert first. I'll come after I help out Claire," Lyndon said.
The woman leaned into him, and he didn't pull away. Instead, he held her in his arms and gently placed her in the passenger seat.
"If you think the car is dirty, take a taxi. I'll go with you tomorrow to pick a new one."
At that moment, I suddenly remembered that year, when we were twenty.
He had done the same back then—those calm, clear eyes were watching me without ever saying no.
I used to be so happy, thinking his life had changed its color because of me.
He never grew arrogant from affection, nor did he flatter anyone. He simply let me "cause trouble" as I pleased.
Except now, I didn't know whether he had crossed any boundaries, but Claire clearly had.
I stood quietly by the roadside, watching the car slowly drive away, unable to say a word.
I still went to the concert. After all, the tickets were given by an acquaintance, and I had to show them face.
Truthfully, I wasn't that passionate about music. But Lyndon loved it.
He could stare at a painting I didn't understand all afternoon, or be moved to tears at music that made me want to sleep.
Only in these refined matters did his emotions show any fluctuation.
So when I received the tickets, I wanted to please him. I imagined him lost in music while I linked my arm with his, enjoying a quiet moment together.
I never expected the seat beside me would remain empty for the entire concert.
I listened half-heartedly, then had the flowers I'd prepared delivered to the overwhelmed musician in the crowd and left.
At home, I saw a car parked in the courtyard.
A bad premonition rose in me.
I pushed the door open. Lyndon sat in the living room, expression calm as ever.
His jacket—stained with Claire's blood—was carelessly draped over the sofa.
His rolled-up sleeves revealed firm forearms, damp as if he had just touched water.
Something was off.
"Why didn't you get the car cleaned?" I asked.
Before he could answer, a woman's startled cry came from the master bedroom.
I froze.
He strode over, knocking on the door with restrained force.
"Claire, what's wrong?"
"Sister-in-law's clothes didn't fit me... and I accidentally broke your wedding photo on the bedside table..."
I went insane, shoving the man aside. I threw open the door, not caring that the woman's clothes were disheveled.
Slap!
I struck with full force.
Claire fell to the ground, clutching her face, panic written all over her.
Inhaling sharply, I looked around.
The framed wedding photo lay shattered on the floor. My clothes were strewn across the walk-in closet. The bathtub contained still-pink water. The air smelled of his shower gel—and faintly of blood.
A wave of nausea hit me, sudden and overwhelming.
Lyndon grabbed the comforter from the bed and wrapped it around Claire.
"Reina, are you crazy?" he demanded.
"Claire just used the bathroom and borrowed some of your clothes in an emergency. Do you need to react like this?!"
He looked at me, utterly incredulous as though I was unreasonable.
But this was our bedroom!
The closet held countless dresses I had bought to please him.
The men's shower gel was carefully chosen, a matching set for couples...
"Apologize." He protected the woman in his arms, his voice sharp and commanding.
A bitterness lodged in my throat. I took a few steps back and spat coldly, "Never."
