My husband suffered from violent mania—at the sight of red, he lost control.
Since our marriage, I've only dared to wear red twice.
The first time, he snapped, beat me until my head split open, and I needed thirteen stitches.
The second time, I was three months pregnant. He hit me so hard I lost the baby.
From then on, I never dared to wear red again. I was so afraid of provoking him that I dressed in nothing but pure white, from my undergarments to my outer clothes.
The day I was discharged from the hospital after my miscarriage, I held my aching stomach as I walked past a restaurant—only to see my husband, who was supposed to be working overtime, sitting with a young female student.
His eyes glowed with admiration, brimming with affection.
They couldn't hold back their feelings, and soon they were wrapped in each other's arms, dancing clumsily to the music.
At that moment, my phone rang. The doctor's voice was filled with excitement.
"Mrs. Tomlinson, regarding your husband's condition—we've finally developed a treatment..."
I stared at the girl's flaming red dress, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "No need. The problem has already been solved."
——
"What? That's impossible! We've been researching for so long, trying to pinpoint the cause of Mr. Tomlinson's episodes. Now, after countless discussions among experts, we've finally come up with a solution—"
But his voice faded into the background.
Upstairs, the girl tripped over his foot as they waltzed, laughing as she leaned into him.
Tears welled in my eyes as a quiet laugh escaped me.
Perhaps the real problem was simple—I should never have been sitting in the seat of Mrs. Tomlinson.
I didn't wait for their dance to end. I turned and went home.
Opening my wardrobe, I gazed at the row of red dresses hanging inside.
Before I married, red was my favorite color. But because Raymond couldn't bear to see it on me, I locked them away, letting them collect dust in the dark.
But this time... I no longer wanted to play along with his acting. I no longer wanted to be the punchline of his cruel joke.
When he returned home, the first sight that greeted him was me—sitting calmly at the table, dressed in a scarlet gown, sipping coffee.
His face twisted in rage. In an instant, he lunged at me and clamped his hands around my throat.
"Didn't I tell you? You are forbidden to wear this color!"
His fist rose, ready to strike, but stopped midair. His face contorted in anguish.
I remembered the last time he told me he loved me—how he swore he was trying his best to restrain his instincts, to keep from hurting me.
So I smiled faintly, meeting his eyes. "Raymond. Didn't you say you love me? Then show me—prove you can control yourself for me."
The veins on his hand bulged, his whole body trembling.
In the end, he smashed a glass bottle instead, letting the shards cut deep into his palm before storming out.
I watched his retreating figure, my gaze turning cold. "See? You can control yourself."
The last time I wore red, he beat me until I miscarried.
When he saw me lying pale and broken in the hospital bed, he frowned deeply.
"I told you, didn't I? From now on, just wear white. No red. Never wear red!"
"You know I can't control myself when I see that color—it's a trigger, you've always known that!"
Seeing me cry silently, he finally softened, pulling me into his arms.
"Don't cry. This is my psychological disorder. I know it's unfair to you. But as long as you don't wear red, nothing will ever happen between us."
And I swallowed my pain, nodding obediently.
But that was before Dorothy appeared.
She made me realize just how much of a fool I had been, how completely I'd been played.
While his private doctor tended to Raymond's wounds outside, I quietly packed my suitcase inside the bedroom.
Perhaps the sound startled him, because he pushed open the door and stepped in, slipping his arms around me from behind.
"Why are you packing again? Another business trip?"
