I couldn’t help but think back to our second year of marriage, when I was burning with a severe gastric fever, barely conscious.
The housekeeper had told Isla to cool me down with a wet towel. But when my finger accidentally brushed against hers, she dumped the entire basin of cold water over me.
Her first reaction wasn’t to worry; she ran straight to the bathroom, washed her hands again and again, and threw up.
“But Isla,” I finally said, unable to hold it in any longer, “you knew I couldn’t swim. Weren’t you scared I’d drown?”
“I calculated it,” she answered calmly. “The rescue team at the base would be there in ten minutes. You’d suffer a little, but you wouldn’t die.”
“Landon Raye, I told you from the start about my condition. You’re the one who insisted on marrying me. So what are you complaining about now?”
Her eyes carried nothing but annoyance, as if I were the one causing trouble. And the truth was, maybe she was right. I had chosen this for myself.
Isla glanced at her watch and stood up.
“Alright, the doctor said you can be discharged. Have the driver take you home. I still have things to do.”