Chapter 2
Ryan wasn’t convinced. He rolled his eyes and smirked.
He brought me a cup of tea and asked mockingly, “So, Mr. Baker, why is Claire making you wait so long? It’s weird—whenever I stop by, no matter how busy she is, she always makes time for me. She says I’m her priority.”
He smiled smugly, and for a moment, I saw a bit of my younger self in him.
I thought about it. Claire did treat Ryan differently.
She’d had countless lovers over the years, using them as pawns in her game to provoke me. Every night, she brought home someone new, testing my limits.
But she never kept them around for long. A day or two, maybe a week. She always got bored quickly.
Ryan, though, was different. She spoiled him. She took him out to dinner, shopping, and movies. They acted like an ordinary, happy couple.
She gave him money, but she also gave him affection.
I looked at him and smiled gently. “If you’re so important to her, why settle for being her dirty little secret?”
“You should convince her to divorce me and marry you instead.”
Ryan’s expression darkened instantly. He glared at me, his voice shaking with anger.
“You’re the one who’s useless here! You’re nothing but a kept man!”
“You only got to her first. But now? You’re old, you’re ugly. What could you possibly offer her?”
His coworker hurried over, pulling him away, clearly worried I’d be upset.
But I wasn’t.
I’d promised myself long ago that I wouldn’t get angry because of Claire.
I wouldn’t feel sad because of her.
And I definitely wouldn’t stoop to competing with her lovers.
She wasn’t worth it.
3.
Ryan was pulled back by a coworker, but he lost his balance, fell to the ground, and shattered the teacup in his hand. Blood poured from the deep cut on his palm, pooling on the floor.
Through the glass of the conference room, Claire saw what had happened.
Under the watchful eyes of everyone, she threw down her papers, pushed the door open, and hurried over to Ryan. She grabbed his hand with visible distress, frowning as she examined his injury.
Her voice was cold as she asked, “Who did this to him?”
The coworker who had tried to help Ryan stepped back in fear, their face pale.
I let out a dry laugh. “It was me. And honestly, he deserved it.”
Ryan gritted his teeth and glared at me, then shouted, “Yeah, I deserved it! I fell for someone I shouldn’t have. I’m the one being called a kept man, a plaything.”
“But Claire,” he said, looking into her eyes with a mix of defiance and passion, “as long as you love me, I’ll stay by your side forever. No one can take me away from you.”
The words were absurd, but the way he said them—so firm, so sincere—made him seem almost brave.
Claire couldn’t help but laugh. She reached out to ruffle his hair and said softly, “Don’t be mad. You’re going to make me worry.”
She treated him differently. That much was obvious.
I lowered my gaze, no longer interested in the scene. Instead, I calmly said to Claire, “For my birthday this year, I want $50,000.”
It was funny, really. We were married, yet we didn’t even have each other’s phone numbers.
The only time I reached out to her was when I needed money.
Before we got married, we had an agreement: she wanted me, and I wanted her money.
Claire had always hated how materialistic I was.
But in the past, no matter how much I asked for, she would always give it to me without hesitation.
This time, though, she looked at me with a cold smile and said slowly, “You can have the money.”
“But, Isaac, first, lower your proud head and apologize to Ryan.”
Claire was willing to pay $50,000 to buy back my dignity and give it to Ryan in the form of an apology.
It was the first time she had used money to humiliate me for the sake of another man.
I clenched my fists and forced a laugh, holding back the sudden wave of pain that surged through my body.
I turned and walked away.
I didn’t need the money anymore.
For the first time, I was curious about Claire.
If one day she found out that this money could have given me more time to live… if she knew how much I’d suffered before I died…
What kind of expression would she have then?
4.
I went home alone, curling up in bed in pain, drenched in a cold sweat.
After taking a sleeping pill, I told myself, If I fall asleep, it won’t hurt anymore.
Half-asleep, I dreamed of when I was twenty years old. Claire was dirt-poor back then, but she loved me deeply.
That year, on my birthday, I walked past a café and saw a couple sitting by the window.
The boy was holding a white cake—it looked delicate, delicious, and expensive.
I still remember the snow falling heavily that day. I scooped up a mound of snow, turned to Claire, and grinned. “Claire, doesn’t this look like a cake?”
She bit her lip, pulled me into her arms, and held me tight. She didn’t let me see the tears welling up in her eyes.
Three days later, she showed up outside my dorm with a cake.
When I saw the frostbite on her fingers, my eyes turned red with anger.
Through gritted teeth, I told her, “Claire, your hands are meant for reading and writing, not for ruining just to make me happy.”
I said I didn’t deserve such an expensive cake.
She frowned and immediately shot back, “Isaac, you’re the best person in the world. You deserve all the good things it has to offer.”
That day, I ate the entire cake through tears.
I don’t even remember what it tasted like anymore.
I just know that after that, I never had a cake that tasted better.
I slept for a long time.
Half-conscious, I heard my phone ringing.
When I picked it up, Claire’s voice came through.
“Isaac,” she said.
I smiled faintly, my voice soft as I replied, “Claire, it’s snowing. I want cake.”
Before she could respond, I turned over and fell back into a deep sleep.
5.
I slept until the middle of the night when hunger woke me up.
I went to the kitchen to find something to eat, only to realize Claire had come back.
She had bought Ryan a big house.
They lived there together. He cooked for her, made her laugh, and waited for her to come home. Claire seemed happy. She hadn’t been back here in a long time.
She leaned lazily against the floor-to-ceiling window, her eyes fixed on me.
I kept my head down and walked past her, only for her to grab my arm.
Frowning, she asked softly, “Why have you lost so much weight?”
Her tone was gentle, almost like she still cared about me.
For a moment, I froze before yanking my arm away and snapping, “Claire, what’s wrong with you now?”
She glanced at her empty hand, her face slowly turning cold.
It wasn’t until I reached the dining table and saw a cake covered in candles that I realized the phone call hadn’t been a dream.
I’d said I wanted cake, and Claire had bought one.
What was this? A peace offering?
But I was dying. I didn’t need a cake—or her—anymore.
Grabbing the cake, I threw it straight into the trash.
Claire frowned, then shoved me against the wall, her voice sharp. “Isaac, are you messing with me?”
I smiled, unbothered. “Yeah, Claire, I’m messing with you. So what?”
“I said I wanted cake, and you went and bought one. God, you’re just as pathetic as you used to be.”
I twisted the knife deliberately, watching her expression grow colder by the second.
Her face darkened completely as she grabbed my collar and dragged me into the bedroom.
She shoved me down onto the bed, her movements rough and unrestrained.
Claire was furious. Her lips crashed onto mine, hard enough to split the corner of my mouth.
I shoved her off, my voice icy. “Don’t touch me, Claire. You disgust me.”
But she lunged at me again, biting down on my neck. The sharp pain made me suck in a breath.
Her voice was low and harsh against my ear.
“Isaac, would it kill you to give in to me for once?”
“Do you even know how long I’ve waited for you to come to me? How many years I’ve waited for you to just talk to me?”
“Do you know how happy I was when you said you wanted cake?”
“And then you turn around and treat me like a joke?”
She pulled back, her eyes red and brimming with tears, staring at me as if waiting for an answer.
My own eyes stung as I glared back at her.
The room was dim and suffocating, and neither of us said a word.
Claire leaned in closer, her lips just inches from mine when her phone suddenly rang.
It was Ryan.
She paused, then answered it.
I could hear Ryan’s voice, tearful and trembling.
“Claire, are you really leaving me for him? You love me. I know you do.”
“I’m at a bar right now. I’ve had a lot to drink, and some woman started talking to me…”
“I hate her. Please come get me. Take me home, Claire. Please.”
Claire said nothing at first. She just stared at me, her lips curling into a cold, mocking smile.
Then she spoke, her voice soft but commanding.
“Isaac, beg me.”
“Beg me to stay, and I won’t leave.”
She must have forgotten.
A long time ago, I’d already begged her.
I’d swallowed my pride and asked, “Claire, can we just sit down and talk calmly?”
“Can we stop fighting?”
“Can’t we just… be happy together?”
“Can you treat me better?”
I remember how she had stared at me back then, her gaze cold as ice.
And she’d smiled as she said, “Isaac, you don’t deserve it.”
Those words had stayed with me ever since, lodged deep in my heart.
And now, finally, I could say them back to her.
Grabbing her collar, I looked her dead in the eye and said, slowly and deliberately, “Claire, you don’t deserve it.”
She froze for a moment, then let out a bitter laugh.
Raising the phone to her ear, she said to Ryan, “I’m coming to get you.”
Without another glance at me, she stood up, slammed the door, and walked out.
6.
The next day, photos of Claire fighting another woman over Ryan spread through our social circles like wildfire.
It was the first time one of her affairs had turned into such a public spectacle.
Reporters were waiting outside our house. As I walked out, they swarmed me, bombarding me with questions.
Claire’s company had grown rapidly over the past few years, and she was a rising name in Westbridge. Not only was she wealthy, but she was also stunningly beautiful, frequently trending online.
One young reporter asked, “Mr. Brooks, do you have any comments on what happened between Claire and Ryan?”
I didn’t stop walking. Without looking back, I replied, “One’s a cheating wife, and the other’s the kind of man who knowingly gets involved with one. What do you want me to say?”
The reporter followed me, persistent.
“But I heard that when Claire was at her lowest, you dumped her for money. Then, when she became successful, you guilt-tripped her into marrying you. Now that she’s found true love with Ryan—who’s clearly a better match—you’re clinging to the title of her husband and calling him a homewrecker. Don’t you think you’re the real problem here?”
I stopped, turned around, and gave him a cold smile.
Grabbing the badge hanging around his neck, I read his name and flipped it over. On the back, there was a student ID from Hillside University.
Calmly, I asked, “You’re Ryan’s friend, aren’t you?”
“Everyone in these circles knows Claire did whatever it took to marry me. You think I wanted to marry her?”
“Or are you here on his behalf, trying to sling mud at me so your buddy can successfully take my place?”
The reporter’s face paled. He snatched his badge back and stammered, “I am Ryan’s friend, but I’m a journalist. Everything I say is fair and objective.”
“If you really didn’t want to marry her,” he continued, regaining his composure, “then why haven’t you divorced her now that she’s fallen for someone else?”
I smirked, about to respond, but then I felt a familiar warmth trickling from my nose.
Blood.
Someone sneered, “Mr. Brooks keeps saying he doesn’t care, that he was forced into this marriage, but look at him—so stressed out he’s giving himself nosebleeds.”
I wiped the blood from my lips with my finger and said evenly, “I’m not stressed. I’m sick. Dying, actually. Nosebleeds are common these days.”
The crowd fell silent. The mocking smiles disappeared.
Only the young reporter kept talking.
“Oh, come on. Quit the act. A nosebleed makes you a dying man now? You’re just trying to play the sympathy card.”
“I can’t stand guys like you—always playing the victim, using every dirty trick in the book. You make us all look bad.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
Something about his retreating figure reminded me of Ryan. Both left the same sour taste in my mouth.
7.
The video of me surrounded by reporters quickly made its way onto trending news.
Claire responded publicly later that day, saying, “I will never divorce my husband. Please stop bothering him.”
That same afternoon, Ryan’s journalist friend was fired.
Online, though, the backlash against me only grew.
“This guy is disgusting. If he didn’t want to marry her, why did he? No one held a gun to his head.”
“And he claims to be her ‘first love’? Please. He’s just a gold digger.”
“Claire defends him so much—I’m jealous.”
“He dumped her for money back then, and now he’s sticking around for the same reason. All this talk about not wanting the marriage is just him playing the victim.”
“Yeah, he’s trying to act noble while still reaping all the benefits. Hypocrite.”
Amid the hate, one comment stood out:
“Why don’t you all shut your mouths? If you don’t know the truth, stop talking.”
People immediately swarmed that account, demanding to know the “truth.”
The truth was as cliché as it gets.
That year, my mom was diagnosed with a terminal illness. The doctors said it was genetic.
Not only was I doomed to eventually face the same fate, but if I ever had kids, they were likely to inherit it, too.
The day my mom fell ill, she bled so much from her nose that the floor was covered in red. She lost so much blood that she slipped into a coma for three days.
When she woke up, the first thing she said was, “Isaac, you need to break up with Claire.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded, and whispered, “Mom, she won’t care about that.”
I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her or myself.
My mom gently held my hand, nodded, and said, “I know. She’s a good girl.”
She paused, then smiled faintly.
“You two have been together since high school. Every morning, she’d wait for you at the corner with her bike. Did you think I didn’t notice?”
“I remember once, she bought you a sandwich for breakfast. It cost all her bucks.”
“You were so clueless and greedy. She lied and said she’d already eaten. And you believed her, happily devouring the sandwich while she went hungry.”
“She didn’t have much back then. Her parents were divorced, and she was practically an orphan. That twelve bucks might’ve been her entire day’s budget, and she didn’t even hesitate to spend it on you.”
“I thought to myself, my son is lucky to have found someone so good.”
“She’s smart, kind, and wonderful in every way.”
“But because she’s so good, I can’t let her waste her life on you.”
That same year, Claire’s grandmother fell ill and was hospitalized. They were incredibly close—her grandmother had raised her. Claire was already overwhelmed trying to pay for the medical bills.
My mom said women’s hearts are fragile. If Claire lost her grandmother and me, it would destroy her.
I clenched my fists, and after a long silence, I whispered, “Mom… I can’t let her go.”
Those words broke me. Tears poured down my face.
I can’t let her go.
7.
Even ten years later, thinking about it still makes my chest ache.
I bought my mom’s favorite persimmons and planned to visit her grave one last time.
I was dying. I needed to tell her that I wouldn’t be coming back anymore.
Before heading to the cemetery, I decided to stop by Claire’s office to retrieve something.
When my mom was alive, she adored Claire.
That was back when she was still healthy, and Claire and I were deeply in love.
One year, my mom visited a temple and brought back two porcelain dolls for good luck.
Inside the boy doll, she tucked my birthdate. Inside the girl doll, she tucked Claire’s.
They were supposed to protect us—keep us healthy and ensure that we’d always stay together.
My mom asked me to give Claire her doll.
But Claire didn’t want the one meant for her. She insisted on taking mine instead.
She said the boy doll reminded her of me—awkward and a little goofy, but endearing.
She said looking at it felt like looking at me.
She liked seeing me.
To this day, that doll had sat on Claire’s desk at work.
I was worried that after I died, Claire would toss it in the trash like it was nothing.
It was something my mom had given me. I needed to take it back and leave it at her grave, so it could stay with her.
When I arrived at Claire’s office, she was watching the video of me from that morning—the one where I was bleeding from my nose, casually mentioning that I was dying.
When she noticed me, she set her phone aside without saying a word.
I glanced at her desk and saw that the spot where the doll used to sit was empty.
Frowning, I asked, “Where’s my doll?”