Chapter 2

2.

When I woke up the next day, it was already noon.

My phone was ringing with an incoming call from Yvette.

I hesitated for a few seconds before answering.

"What's your problem? Where is my lunch?!" Her voice was laced with undisguised fury.

I let out a bitter, self-mocking laugh as another wave of pain hit my stomach like a punch.

"Didn't you say you were sick of my cooking?"

The line went silent for a beat before she snapped.

"Can you stop acting like a baby? Deliver it or don't, see if I care!"

Yvette was an incredibly picky eater who hated bell peppers, despised cilantro, and demanded carrots sliced paper-thin.

To make sure she ate well, I used to spend hours experimenting with recipes.

Rain or shine, blazing heat or freezing storm, I always brought fresh meals directly to her office.

"Do you even remember what yesterday was?" I asked quietly.

Yvette clicked her tongue in irritation. "What day? Like I have time to track meaningless nonsense. Are you done nagging?"

A beat passed, followed by her mocking laughter.

"Oh, our anniversary? You're way too old to care about teenage romance. Grow up."

I was five years older than her, and she had clearly begun despising my age.

Last month, I accidentally overheard her venting to her best friend on the phone.

"He's getting so old. I swear he's developing age spots, and I can barely stand him touching me..."

"Love? How could I still love him? The spark died ages ago..."

I hadn't been able to listen past that point, my heart frozen in my chest.

Her impatient voice pulled me back to reality. "What do you actually want? If it's nothing, I'm hanging up. I'm busy."

"Go ahead. Hang up."

I ended the call and closed my weary eyes.

The doctor soon walked in with my test results.

It was early-stage colon cancer.

"Do you eat a lot of excessively spicy food?" the doctor asked, adjusting his glasses.

"No, I can't handle spice, but my wife loves fiery food..." I answered instinctively, before cutting myself off.

The doctor gave me a meaningful look, then instructed me on medication and regular checkups.

I hated spicy food. But Yvette couldn't eat a single meal without drowning it in extra chilies.

To keep her company, I had forced myself to cook and eat burning-hot dishes at every meal.

"Doctor, is it treatable?"

"We caught it early. With timely treatment and medication, your prognosis is good."

I walked out of the hospital feeling utterly hollow.

A text message from Yvette popped up on my screen: "What do you want for dinner? I'll have my assistant book a table."

Whenever she crossed the line, she always threw me these cheap bones as compensation.

Out of morbid curiosity, I opened her social media page, and her latest post stabbed straight into my chest.

The photo showed her and Jared sitting across from each other in a spicy hot pot restaurant, raising their glasses with beaming smiles.

Her caption read: "Finally found my match. Someone to share every meal with from now on."

Jared commented below: "Me too."

Their fingers were linked together on the table, and the glittering diamond ring on Yvette's finger looked blindingly sharp.

They had bought those rings yesterday using my credit card.

She had always refused to wear our wedding band, and now she clearly had no reason to.

A profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones, draining away even my will to confront her.

She was right. We were never a good match.

Everything I loved, she hated.

Everything she craved, I couldn't stand.

I replied with one word: "Whatever."

There were things that needed to be settled between us once and for all.