That day was my father’s death anniversary. I sat before his grave, torturing myself by staring at those photos.
Grief overwhelmed me, and without realizing it, I drank too much. Through tears, I called Andrew Smith, sobbing that I missed him, that I wanted to see him.
He hung up and immediately bought the earliest flight back. When I woke, I was still in a daze.
Seeing him bustling in the kitchen filled me with shock and joy.
But when I noticed what he was making—a pot of ginger tea—my heart sank as if doused with ice water.
I was allergic to ginger. He knew that.
He packed most of it into a thermos, thoughtfully prepared cookies, even small toys, and before leaving said:
“There’s some left in the pot. Drink it, it’s good for your health.”
I couldn’t hold back and asked before he walked out, “Do you even remember that I’m allergic to ginger?”
He didn’t move, didn’t turn back, just stood there like a block of ice.
At that moment, I knew—my warmth could never melt him.
I arranged for Buddy to be transferred to a more reliable hospital and turned my attention to matters with the Smith Corporation.
Back then, we had only held a wedding ceremony without getting a marriage license. Arrogantly, I thought I would make Andrew fall in love with me, waiting for him to pursue me.
Looking back now, how ridiculous.
I went to meet a man who had once saved my life. If not for him, I would have died that night.
Buddy had dragged me into the road, where this man recognized me while driving home. He took me to the hospital and stayed up all night caring for me.
When we finally met again for dinner, conversation flowed effortlessly, as if we had known each other forever.
By the time I checked my phone, I had five missed calls. When I called back, Andrew’s furious voice lashed out:
“Where are you? What the hell were you doing just now?”
“Having dinner. Why? Do you need something?”
Andrew fell silent, stunned, unprepared.
Of course—before, I had set a special ringtone just for him, never silenced my phone, and always answered on the first ring.
Seeing he had nothing to say, I hung up.
Still chatting happily with Daniel Clark, I let him walk me home. Just as we reached the door, Andrew stormed out of his car and punched Daniel.
“Damn you, trying to steal my woman? Rachel Moore is my wife!”
I rushed to help Daniel, dodging Andrew’s rage. “Calm down, we’re just friends.”
“Friends? Don’t play me for a fool. I’m a man—I know that look!”
Another punch swung, missing Daniel and slamming into my temple. My glasses shattered, darkness closing in.
Even as I crumpled to the ground in pain, Andrew didn’t stop—until Chloe White stumbled out of the car, clothes disheveled, crying:
“Andrew, stop! You’ll kill someone!”
Like a lion soothed, Andrew instantly calmed down.
Afraid to frighten Chloe, he covered her eyes and carried her back into the car.
Only then did I notice his shirt collar was undone, three buttons open, and the shimmer of lipstick on his mouth.
It was obvious what he and Chloe had been doing inside.
Accusing me of betrayal, while indulging in his own.
After sending Daniel to the hospital, I collapsed into a chair, utterly exhausted.
My phone rang again and again, like a death knell.
Answering it, I headed to New York, rehearsing countermeasures along the way.
The moment I landed, Andrew greeted me with a vicious slap across the face.
