After I'm Cured of Obsession, My Wife Snaps

"Enough! Daniel Whitaker, are you ever going to stop?"

Eleanor Hayes' face was livid with rage as she swept my belongings onto the floor.

"Daniel, how many times do I have to explain this? I don't want you wasting all your time painting. You have no talent for it, and no one is ever going to appreciate your work!"

She reached for my arm, but I calmly stepped out of her grasp.

"According to my calculations and consultations with several industry professionals, my paintings are valued at a minimum of one million dollars each. The painting you just ruined was estimated to be worth 1.3 million."

The disbelief on Eleanor's face made it clear that she didn't believe me, so I called the person in charge of the upcoming art exhibition and had them confirm the valuation. Facts, after all, were not a matter of opinion.

Instead of convincing her, however, the confirmation only darkened her expression.

"A minimum of one million dollars? You really have some nerve!" she snapped. "In all of Harbor City, who besides me would ever want your paintings?"

She stepped closer, her voice rising. "Put your paintings on display, and all people will do is point fingers and remind everyone that you're a thief who stole Charles' work."

Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me to look directly at her.

"I'm trying to protect you, Daniel! I'm trying to keep you from embarrassing yourself by painting!"

Her grip tightened until the pressure became painful, but I simply tilted my head and studied her. I noted the tension in her expression, the changes in her voice, and the rapid escalation of her emotions as though I were analyzing a set of data.

"Based on your facial microexpressions and vocal frequency, you're experiencing an episode of impotent rage," I said matter-of-factly. "I recommend that you calm down."

Eleanor froze.

She opened her mouth as if she had another argument ready, but the moment her eyes met my cold, emotionless gaze, whatever she intended to say seemed to vanish. Her brows slowly drew together as she stared at me, confusion replacing the anger on her face.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.

"Why does it feel like you're… different?"

Before I left, my gaze briefly fell on the food container in Eleanor's hand—the one Charles Beaumont had brought for her.

She noticed immediately. In the past, seeing anything connected to Charles around her would have been enough to send me into a jealous rage. Judging by the faint anticipation in her eyes, I suspected she was waiting for me to react the same way this time.

Instead, I calmly said, "Ms. Hayes, you're supposed to be fasting before your minor surgery. I wouldn't recommend eating that just yet. Consider it a friendly warning."