"No, no! It’s just my alarm going off. I still have some work to handle, so I’ll head to the study!"
He rushed out, but somehow tripped on the carpet and ended up falling flat on his face, like a dog tumbling over.
I didn't move an inch, only asking him symbolically if he was in pain.
He rubbed his chin and sat up, looking aggrieved. "Honey, do you not love me anymore? Back when I got hurt, you would always hug me and feel sorry for me..."
With someone like him, what right did he have to talk about love? What right did he have to ask for sympathy?
When he had nothing—no money, no prospects—I ignored my family's objections, gave up all my assets and married him. I even borrowed money from every friend I knew to support his business.
I loved him deeply and considered him my entire world.
But what did I get in return?
Not only did he bring his "lover" into our home, but he also got her pregnant right in front of my eyes.
He treated me like a fool. Why should I still love him?
Now, all I feel for him was hatred. I could hardly resist the urge to kill him with my own hands.
"I threw up too much earlier, I don't have any strength left," I muttered weakly.