From mistress number three to mistress number eighteen, to the college girl warming his bed now—whether his lies were clumsy or sophisticated, he never believed me. Never chose me. Not once.
After all those years together, I think I stopped loving him a long time ago. What remained was obsession. I was obsessed with becoming the first person his face-blind eyes would recognize, obsessed with making him choose me just once.
The first time he made me compete for his attention, he picked someone else. I gripped his sleeve and begged him to stay. He peeled my fingers off the fabric one by one, his voice cold as the wind slicing past us, so harsh I could barely make out the words.
"Who are you?"
Those two words shattered me.
I refused to accept it. I fought back, again and again. The first time—after he claimed he'd "mistaken someone else for me" and slept with her—I called the cops. They showed up, but he smoothed it over with excuses. The second time, I posted the photos online. His PR team scrubbed them within the hour.
I waged war using methods that hurt him by a thousand but hurt me by eight hundred. That was the only way I earned my adoptive parents' guilt money, the only way I got permission to marry. But revenge always came with a price.
The first time, Aiden ripped the down jacket off my back and draped it over his mistress's shoulders. I stood outside in nothing but thermal underwear, "reflecting on my mistakes," until I passed out from the cold.
The second time, under his special "care," I lost a child.
That day, Avalon City's winter bit deep. Snow blanketed everything, freezing into thick ice on the ground. I felt the warmth spreading through my lower belly, helpless, watching it bloom into little blood-red flowers beneath me.
I shut my eyes. Enough remembering. I stared at the gynecology department door and sighed.
It's not like every man on earth was dead—why had I spent all those years hanging myself on that crooked tree? At least now I was free.
When my number was finally called, Aiden was rushing past with Tessa in his arms, sprinting between exam rooms, terrified something might be wrong with her body. I couldn't remember the last time he'd looked that worried about me.
As they passed, Tessa's foot swung out—accidentally or not. I glanced down. A dusty footprint smeared across my white shirt.
Aiden noticed and quickly apologized, but when his eyes met my face, confusion flickered across his features. "Have we met?"
I pulled my lab coat tight, hiding the ruined shirt underneath, and shook my head.
Sometimes I wondered if Aiden was really face-blind at all. If he was, how could he punish me so precisely? If he wasn't, why did he fail to recognize me every single time he looked at my face?
Lost in thought, I walked into the room, changed, and lay down on the operating table. The surgical light clicked on. I clutched the edge of my gown, my mind dragging me back to the first time I lost a child.
Back then, they'd rushed me into emergency treatment. Doctors rotated in and out, grim-faced, speaking in clipped tones. A friend once told me that was a bad sign.
My uterine wall was thin. Getting pregnant had never been easy for me. Aiden once moved heaven and earth to help me—tracking down remedies, spending fortunes on treatments. He even crammed his schedule so tight he barely slept four hours a night, just so he could brew my medicine himself.
Was he good to me? He was.
But while I was hemorrhaging and being resuscitated, he was in the room next door, in bed with someone else. The sounds carried through the wall—even the attending physician's face went red with fury. And after my surgery ended, he never came to see me. Not once.
I still remember exactly what the nurse said.
