Calista woke to a sharp, throbbing pain.
The smell of disinfectant filled her nose, and the bright fluorescent light overhead made her eyes ache. She instinctively lifted her hand to shield her eyes, but the movement tugged at the IV needle on the back of her hand, and a sharp hiss escaped her lips.
The nurse was changing her dressing and sighed with relief when she saw her awake. "You're finally awake. Who could hate you enough to do this? Two bottles were smashed over your head, and it took over 30 stitches to close the wounds."
Calista reflexively touched her bandaged head and asked in a raspy voice, "Where is the person who brought me here?"
"If you mean your friend, she stayed by your side all night but had to leave for a business emergency. She asked me to tell you that she hired a caregiver to look after you," the nurse replied.
Calista froze for a moment. She realized that the person who rushed her to the hospital wasn't even Theodore. She wondered where he could possibly be.
She reached for her phone, and as her fingers brushed the screen, an Instagram story from Aveline popped up. The caption read, "Theodore still knows exactly how to make me feel better."
In the video, Aveline held out her hand and pouted. "Look, I even cut my index finger while smashing those bottles."
The camera cut to Theodore crouching in front of her. His long, slender fingers held a bandage, which he carefully pressed onto her fingertip. He then lowered his head and pressed a restrained kiss to her finger, his voice low and husky. "There. It doesn't hurt anymore."
Calista stared at the screen, feeling as if the wound on her head had been ripped open again and doused with a bottle of alcohol. The phantom pain was so sharp it left her fingertips numb.
She took a deep breath and dialed 911. "Hello, I'd like to report an assault."
…
That night, Theodore pushed open the hospital room door. He was dressed in a black trench coat, his expression grim with a flicker of anger hidden in his eyes. "Did you call the police and accuse Aveline of intentional injury?"
Calista looked him straight in the eye. "Yes. What she did was intentional assault, and it's serious enough to press criminal charges."
Theodore's voice was deep, his brows furrowed with displeasure. "It was wrong for her to hit you in anger, but I've already punished her. This matter is settled."
Calista let out a cold laugh. "Punished her? How exactly did you punish her?"
Theodore replied, "She has a volatile temperament, so I grounded her for the day."
Calista froze for a moment before bursting into laughter, laughing so hard that her wounds ached. "I got over 30 stitches, and you only grounded her for a day? Theodore, did you keep her from leaving the house to punish her, or were you secretly protecting her because you were afraid that I'd go after her?"
Theodore's expression darkened. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course it was a punishment.
"I've already had the police drop the charges. There's no point in reporting it to other stations—no one in all of Jorville would take this case."
Calista gripped the bedsheets tightly, her nails nearly digging into her palms.
There were countless things she wanted to say, but in the end, all she could do was ask, "Theodore, in the six years I've spent chasing after you, what exactly did you think of me? Since you don't care about me, why did you even marry me?"
Theodore's frown deepened. "Who said that I don't care about you?"
After a pause, he continued, "That's enough. Let this end here. I'll stay at the hospital to look after you for the next few days, and I'll compensate you once you're discharged. Stop making a scene."
He spoke as if he were granting her some magnificent favor.
Calista suddenly found it laughable. And yet, she realized that it was true. In the past, she had always been the one chasing him—chasing him to tell him she loved him, chasing him to be with her, chasing him to bed.
He had never taken the initiative. Now that he chose to stay on his own, it truly felt like a tremendous favor.
