I put down the cutlery and looked at Shawn.
However, he didn’t notice anything—he was still carefully placing food onto Clara’s plate.
Who would have thought that this was the same man who once wiped his hands for half an hour after accidentally brushing against my fingers?
Turns out, his so-called aversion to physical contact only ever applied to me.
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the thermometer.
At that moment, without looking at me, Shawn suddenly announced, "Clara just got back to the country. She’s alone, and I’m worried about her. So I won’t be coming home tonight to accompany her."
In the past, whenever Shawn spoke, I would obey without question.
But this time, I suddenly didn’t want to move.
I pulled the thermometer from my mouth and said, "Shawn, I’ve had a high fever for two days. Can you take me to the hospital first?"
Shawn glanced at the thermometer for two seconds. "Alright, I’ll take you—"
But before he could finish his sentence, Clara interrupted him.
"Shawn, it’s already so late—10 PM. I want to go home."
Clara tugged at his sleeve, and I saw the corners of his lips unconsciously lift into a smile.
Then, he shot me a cold glance.
"It’s just a fever. It’s not a big deal. Go to the hospital yourself—I need to take Clara home."
"Shawn—"
I tried to call out to him again, but all I got in response was the sound of the door closing without hesitation.
The table was covered in trash, filled with empty plates.
I had spent three exhausting hours cooking, yet Shawn left with his precious "first love" without so much as a single word of comfort.
Supporting my throbbing head, on the verge of collapsing, I dialed emergency services.
Only when the ambulance arrived did I finally allow myself to lose consciousness.
—
"Miss, do you have a family member we can contact?"
The nurse’s voice woke me up. I stared blankly at my phone’s empty screen—not a single message.
Of course not.
Right now, Shawn was busy being with the one he truly cared about. He wouldn’t have the time to check on me.
Thinking back on the past few days, I could only find it laughable.
For five years, Shawn had insisted he was a believer in both platonic love and lifelong bachelorhood.
I had always gone along with it, staying by his side as his girlfriend, respecting his so-called "principles."
Until two days ago—when he held my hand and said, "Let’s get married."
My first reaction was joy.
I thought that, after all these years, my love had finally touched him—that he wanted to build a home with me.
But the moment I stepped into his family home, his mother scrutinized me from head to toe.
"A young lady like you—doesn’t your family teach you anything? You're dressed so seductively. Anyone who knows better would think you’re here to visit your boyfriend’s family. But someone who doesn’t might assume you’re selling yourself."
As if that wasn’t enough, she even clicked her tongue twice in disdain. "Your taste is getting worse, Shawn. She’s not even as good as Clara—at least that girl was well-behaved and proper."
The hand holding my spoon froze.
I turned to Shawn, hoping, praying, that he would defend me. But he didn’t spare me a single glance. Instead, he agreed with his mother.
"Ayra, you really did dress a bit inappropriately today. You should listen to what my mom is saying."
I couldn’t believe the words that had just come out of his mouth.
I had spent half the day digging through my wardrobe, searching online for the most proper outfit to make a good impression on his parents.
A long coat on the outside, a white sweater underneath—how could that be considered inappropriate?
The only reason my figure looked a little fuller was simply because of my natural curves.
I bit my lip, unable to say a word.
His mother’s voice kept ringing in my ears—
"If you want to marry into our family, your wardrobe needs to change. A girl who dresses like this has no place in our home."
"You—”
