Harrison's POV
Because little by little, he crossed the line.
Instead of trying to improve himself, he spent all his energy clinging to Abigail, hoping to ride on her coattails. To make her laugh, he didn’t hesitate to humiliate me.
Eventually, it escalated into open provocation.
He slipped a cockroach into my lunchbox. He swapped the warm water in my cup for boiling water, nearly a hundred degrees.
And every time, it ended with the same excuse that it was just a prank.
I lost my temper more than once.
But Abigail only said, “That’s what young people are like, full of energy, lively, even cute.”
Even this time, I still foolishly held onto a sliver of hope that the ending would be different.
But how stupid and laughable I was to even dream of that.
“Dr. Mason, the surgery is about to begin.” A nurse’s voice cut through the tense silence.
“Let’s leave it at that,” Abigail said, glancing at me. “No one is to bring this up again.”
Then she grabbed Logan’s hand and added, “You’ll be my assistant today.”
“Okay,” Logan replied, but didn’t forget to shoot me a provocative look as he turned back. He even pushed the door wide open on purpose.
Outside, there were plenty of nurses and patients.
When they saw my shaved head, they froze for a second, then lowered their heads together, struggling not to laugh.
I clenched my fists but said nothing. With my bare head exposed, I walked out of the hospital.
The biting winter wind sliced across my scalp like a blade.
And yet, it made my mind clearer than ever.
I pulled out my phone and made a call. “Sis, help me deal with someone.”
“Who?” She answered with a single word—sharp, dangerous.
After all, she was a social powerhouse of the capital. Every rich young heir turned pale at the mention of her name.
“The person you hate most in that hospital.” I smiled faintly.
“Leave it to me!” She let out a laugh like a mischievous little devil.
A cold glint flashed in my eyes.
After all these years, it seemed Abigail had forgotten that I, too, had once clawed my way out of blood and violence like a tiger.
I was never a soft target.
After hanging up, I went home and pulled two notebooks from a drawer.
One had my name on it.
The other had Abigail’s.
When we got married, we made an agreement that whenever one of us was wronged, we’d record it on a page.
When the notebook was filled, it meant the chances were used up, and so was the love.
In the past, even when we argued or I felt hurt, I never wrote anything down because problems could be solved by talking, and there was no third person involved.
That was, until Logan started working at the hospital.
The first time I wrote in it, I only meant to warn Abigail, to tell her to rein it in.
But page after page, without realizing it, I reached the very last one, and this final page recorded every grievance I had left.
Just then, Logan sent me a message.
[Harrison, what do you think of this tattoo? Looks good?]
The picture showed half a maple leaf, with the letter “A” hidden inside.
The meaning was obvious.
It stood for Abigail.
Yet, I didn’t reply. Instead, I waited for Abigail to come home and tossed the notebook onto the table.
“Sign it and put your fingerprint on it.”
That was also part of our agreement that grievances had to be acknowledged by the other party.
“It’s the last page?” Abigail froze for a moment.
“What else would it be?” I narrowed my eyes, glancing at her right wrist.
A hint of a tattoo was visible there.
Noticing my gaze, she tugged down her sleeve. As she signed, she complained, “You’re getting more and more petty. You even write down this kind of trivial nonsense. Trying to threaten me with some crappy notebook? That trick stopped working a long time ago.”
She looked completely indifferent.
What she didn’t know was that I had always taken this seriously.
After signing and pressing her fingerprint, Abigail casually tossed the notebook back to me.
