Chapter 3

3.

On our way out of the estate, Clarissa stared at me with an even stranger look.

"Jesse Campbell, did you take the wrong meds today? Since when did you become so good at flattering Grandpa?"

I looked back at her coldly and replied with pure indifference:

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I have plans, so I won't be coming home for dinner tonight."

Right then, the ride I ordered pulled up to the curb.

I got in without looking back, completely ignoring the lingering gaze Clarissa fixed on me.

I had arranged to meet an upperclassman from my college robotics club, Courtney Ross.

She had repeatedly invited me to join her startup as a technical co-founder with equity.

Back then, in order to focus entirely on supporting Clarissa, I had turned her down.

Once I divorced Clarissa, I wouldn't stay at Hughes Corp for another minute, so I needed to secure my next step.

The moment I sat down at the café, Courtney got straight to the point:

"Jesse, are you really ready to join us? But our company is in the same tech sector as Hughes Corp. Won't this cause tension with your wife?"

I offered a self-deprecating smile and shook my head. "No. We're getting a divorce."

Courtney froze for a second before offering an apologetic look.

I brushed it off and began discussing our future business roadmap with her.

"Jesse, I know you were top of our class. I have total faith in your talent," Courtney said, her eyes shining with genuine trust.

At that moment, a strange warmth stirred in my chest.

I couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at me with such unreserved respect and trust.

Clarissa had always harbored immense paranoia toward me, assuming every move I made was driven by ulterior motives.

I looked Courtney in the eye and said firmly, "I won't let you down."

She extended her hand with a grin. "Looking forward to working together."

I shook her hand with a smile. "Likewise."

After leaving the café, I headed over to a downtown bistro owned by my childhood buddy, Tyler.

I had barely settled into a booth when Clarissa's name flashed across my phone screen.

After a brief hesitation, I picked up.

"Jesse, come back right now and make me a pot of seafood chowder!"

Clarissa was severely allergic to shellfish, and she despised thick soups.

It was glaringly obvious who the chowder was really for.

I refused without a second thought:

"I'm out right now and won't be back anytime soon. Order takeout."

Ignoring the barrage of curses coming through the speaker, I hung up immediately.

Tyler stared at me in disbelief. "Did you really just say no to your wife and hang up on her? Did your love-struck brain finally reboot?"

All my friends knew how hopelessly I had worshipped Clarissa, giving up my own career and pride to marry into her family.

I let out a bitter laugh. "I've been kissing her feet for six straight years. I'm just exhausted."

Tyler clapped a hand on my shoulder and poured me a tall glass of whiskey.

"Drink! Let's get wasted tonight."

I tilted my head back and swallowed the liquor in one gulp.

Whether it was drinking too fast or simply being out of practice, I erupted into a fit of violent coughing.

Because Clarissa hated the smell of alcohol, I hadn't touched a drop in years.

Yet her hatred of the smell applied only to me.

She frequently stumbled home in the dead of night reeking of expensive wine and cigarettes.

Midway through our drinks, I noticed Damon Miller had posted a new update on his social media feed.

"I merely mentioned that I was craving seafood chowder, and Ms. Hughes drove across the entire city to get it for me. Where else could anyone find such an incredible boss!"

Attached was a photo of Clarissa gently picking out the green onions from his bowl.

I stared at the woman in the picture for a few silent seconds, then quietly tapped the like button underneath.

Setting my phone face down, I drained another glass of whiskey to wash down the lingering bitterness in my throat.

I recognized the restaurant logo on the chowder container all too well.

I had always loved the beef stew from that specific diner.

On my birthday last year, I begged Clarissa to accompany me there just once.

She had coldly rejected me, stating that she would never set foot in such a cheap greasy spoon because it was beneath her status.

Now it was clear that the diner was never beneath her―I was.

This relationship should have ended years ago; I had just been too stubborn to face reality.