Chapter 2

The next morning, surprisingly, Willow had made breakfast.

A pre-packaged sandwich sat on the table. A pot of millet porridge was simmering on the stove.

"What are you standing there for? I got up early to make you breakfast, and you're just going to stand there with that long face?"

She stirred the porridge, then seemed to remember something. Her tone softened. "Oh, this needs to cook for a while longer. I have to go to the office. Can you turn it off in about three hours?"

So the porridge wasn't for me.

Of course. Why would I deserve a meal she cooked herself?

I was the one who used to make her a different breakfast every day, exactly to her liking.

She wasn't making this for me. I was just an afterthought.

Willow rushed out the door. I didn't touch the sandwich, and I certainly didn't care about the porridge.

I just locked myself in my studio and painted.

Hours later, I heard her shouting. "Kael, are you insane? If I hadn't come back, the porridge would have burned!"

"Did you do this on purpose?"

She threw open the door to my studio, her hands on her hips, pointing a finger at me.

I just ignored her and kept painting.

She couldn't stand being ignored. She snatched the brush from my hand and threw it on the floor. "All you do is scribble all day! What else are you good for? I ask you to do one simple thing, and you can't even do that!"

She lunged for my canvas, ready to tear it to shreds.

I shoved her away.

My resistance just fueled her rage. She grabbed the container of porridge she had just brought back and threw it at me.

"You dare to touch me, Kael? You want a divorce that badly?"

The scalding porridge hit my arm. A searing pain shot through my wrist.

It was instantly red and swollen.

I doubled over, my eyes burning. I looked up at her. "Yes, Willow. I want a divorce."

A painter's hands are their most valuable asset. But for her, I had washed dishes, cooked meals, day after day, without a single complaint.

And this was my reward. Contempt. Indifference.

She didn't care about my contributions to our home. She didn't care what would happen if she threw scalding porridge at me.

She didn't care if it hurt me.

In her mind, I would never leave. I couldn't leave her.

For a second, a flicker of guilt crossed her face as she looked at my burned wrist.

But she quickly found an excuse. "If you hadn't made me so angry, I wouldn't have thrown it at you."

"Besides, why didn't you just move?"

I don't know when I became her personal punching bag.

In public, she was the successful CEO, charming and warm. But at home, she showed her true colors: selfish and calculating.

I didn't bother to argue with her baseless accusations.

I walked past her to the living room to treat my burn.

She followed me, calling my name, trying to get me to turn around.

After I had bandaged my wrist, I still didn't look at her.

She finally lost it. "Don't think you're the only one who wants a divorce, Kael! I'm sick of this too!"

"Then let's get one." My casual tone seemed to stun her into silence.

"You better think carefully. Who else is going to want you after me?" she sneered.

Then she grabbed the new container of porridge and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.