Chapter 2

2 When the workday ended, I packed my bag to leave. Right before I stepped out, Garrett sent me a text. "Let's grab dinner after work."

I knew this was his usual peace offering for ruining our anniversary. Whenever he messed up, he would offer a small treat to smooth things over, expecting us to make up like nothing happened. He thought slapping me and then giving me candy would win my forgiveness. I didn't turn him down―a free dinner was the least he owed me.

I headed down to the underground parking garage. In the distance, I saw his car pulling toward me, but before I could step forward, he sped right past me and drove off. A moment later, he called to tell me to head to the restaurant first, saying he would meet me shortly.

I didn't bother replying and hailed a cab instead. I chose a spicy Cajun seafood restaurant I had craved for months. I ordered a bucket of extra-spicy crawfish and shrimp, devouring it all by myself in total peace.

Looking back, I hadn't eaten spicy food once since marrying Garrett. He had ruined his stomach with heavy drinking while building his startup, and even the mildest spice would trigger severe pain. To nurse his health, I spent years learning bland recipes, completely giving up my favorite spicy dishes so he wouldn't eat them by mistake.

Remembering the sacrifices of the past five years, tears welled in my eyes from the hot peppers. I wiped them away, swearing I would never diminish myself for him again.

I took three hours to finish my meal. During that time, Garrett only sent a five-hundred-dollar transfer. He claimed an urgent business meeting came up and told me to enjoy dinner without him.

It was utterly laughable. When he lied, did he forget we worked at the exact same company? Even without asking around, his real schedule always reached my ears. Besides, I had a real-time broadcast running on Joyce's social media.

I opened Joyce's feed and watched her stories like a drama series. One little text from Joyce was all it took for Garrett to drive three hours straight to her side. That was the difference between love and duty. If I had sent that message, Garrett would have sent me an article on how independent women don't bother their husbands. ...

After dinner, I headed home with a full stomach. I took a long bath, did my skincare routine, and watched the movie I had put off for years. Just as I drifted off to sleep, the front door clicked open.

Heavy footsteps approached the bedroom, accompanied by a stench of alcohol that made me gag. "Go take a shower," I muttered, frowning under the covers. "I'm trying to sleep." "Jocelyn," Garrett's displeased voice boomed over me. "Where's my hangover tea?"

I rolled over lazily. "Joyce spent the entire evening with you. Didn't she make you any?" If he had to come home begging for care, Joyce wasn't doing a very good job playing the devoted lover.

Garrett's handsome face darkened instantly. "Can you do anything besides making up ridiculous stories in your head?" "I've told you a hundred times, Joyce is sick and needs someone to look after her. Stop being so petty."

Listen to that. Jocelyn versus Joyce. A simple difference in tone showed exactly who held his heart. In the past, I would have cried and demanded to know who he truly saw when he called that name. Now, I didn't care in the slightest.

Seeing that he had no intention of leaving the bedroom, I pulled back the blanket. "Sleep here then. I'm taking the guest room." I slammed the guest room door shut, locked it from the inside, and fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.