Holding Grace, he kicked apart the cake we’d made for our wedding anniversary, grinding the tiny figurines beneath his heel before leaving without looking back.
At the doorway, though, he turned to remind the butler:
“Make sure Mrs. Carter’s neck is treated with medicine. Don’t let it get wet—she’ll get an infection.”
I stared at the iron rod on the floor. Ethan had still refused to strike me himself.
Which meant, for us, there would be no future.
That night, on our wedding anniversary, Ethan sent a fleet of helicopters and gathered top national surgeons to save another woman. The story even made headlines on the Times Square billboards.
On the screen, he appeared, eyes brimming with concern, cradling Grace as though she were some fragile treasure.
As the butler cleaned the wreckage, his face twisted with anger.
“Mr. Carter went too far this time. You built his empire with him from nothing, gave up so much for him, and you spent an entire day and night making that cake—yet he destroyed it for another woman…”
The cream, red wine, and blood had blended into a nauseating mess.
I spoke flatly:
“It’s fine. Things that get dirty only deserve to be thrown away.”