Four Years Later, Still Can't Earn His Devotion

Damian Pierce called me almost immediately.

“Why did you remove your comment?”

I replied in a soft voice, “Must’ve been an accident.”

He did not question it; he simply hummed.

“There’s some whole-wheat bread left in the fridge from yesterday. Remember to eat it. I have plans tonight, so I won’t be coming home.”

“Damian, it’s my birthday.”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“Didn’t I already post about it?”

“Is that counted as a gift?”

“We agreed not to overspend, didn’t we? Posting a picture is still a way of commemorating it. Don’t let all that stuff you see online get into your head.”

His voice was gentle, almost patient, as though he was correcting a child who did not know any better.

“If you’d like to have some cake, just order one yourself. Use the household account. Don’t get anything too big. It’ll just be a waste.”

I stared at the six-tiered cake on Sienna’s private account. Damian was standing behind her, lighting the candles. At the bottom corner of the photo, I could see half of a man’s wrist. The watch on it was the one I had given him three years ago.

He had not refused it back then. Instead, he transferred the exact same amount to me and said, “That way, it doesn’t count as a gift from you. Neither of us owes the other anything.”

Later, I put the money into our household account. He had continued to wear that watch all along.

“Where are you going tonight?” I asked.

“Out with some friends.”

“Which friends?”

His tone turned slightly cold. “You never used to check up on me.”

“Is Sienna there too?”

This time, the silence lasted much longer.

“She just got dumped. She’s not doing well, so a few of us are keeping her company.”

“In a presidential suite?”

“Elena Carter.” He called me by my full name. “You went through her private account?”

That was what bothered him. It was not what I had discovered but how I had discovered it. I tightened my grip around my phone.

“She receives gifts every year on my birthday and our wedding anniversary. You’re telling me that’s a coincidence?”

“She likes documenting her life. Stop assuming everything is about you.”

“Then who gave her those gifts?”

“Does it matter?” Damian heaved a sigh. “You’re already my wife. Why are you still getting jealous of someone who's just been dumped?”

I let out a quiet laugh. “So she needs handbags, jewelry, roses, and a presidential suite, and I only need a social media post?”

“Elena, marriage isn’t a competition.”

“Then come home. We’ll talk about it face-to-face.”

A knock sounded from his end of the line, then I heard Sienna’s bright voice. “Damian, the candles are about to go out.”

Damian lowered his voice. “I’ll explain later.”

The call ended.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. I thought it was him, but when I opened the door, a delivery man was standing outside. “Ms. Carter, Mr. Pierce ordered a birthday gift for you. Please sign here.”

Inside the paper bag was a box of oatmeal that was about to expire. The order note read: [She’s been having trouble sleeping lately. Don’t send her anything sweet. Get her something practical.]

I picked up the receipt. It cost 19 dollars 90 cents, and after the discount, it was 11 dollars 90 cents.

At that exact moment, a new post from Sienna popped up on my phone. She was wearing a diamond necklace and leaning against Damian’s shoulder.

[He once said roses don’t last more than seven days, so he gave me something that will never fade.]

I stared at the photo for a few seconds, then I liked it.

Sienna messaged me almost immediately: [Elena, don’t misunderstand. The necklace was a gift from everyone.]

I replied: [I never asked who gave it to you.]

The typing indicator appeared and stayed there for a long time. In the end, she sent nothing.

At 2:00 am, Damian finally came home. He took off his coat and glanced at the box of oatmeal on the table. His expression softened slightly. “You got it?”

“I got it.”

“Don’t complain that it’s simple. The best gift is something that suits you.”

With that, he walked into the bathroom.

I picked up his coat to hang it up. A folded receipt slipped from his pocket and landed on the floor.

‘Presidential Suite — $38,000, Decoration Service — $96,000, Custom Jewelry — $680,000’

At the very bottom was a handwritten note: [Per Mr. Pierce’s instructions, the roses must be Ms. Moore’s favorite variety.]

The sound of running water stopped. Damian opened the bathroom door. The moment he saw the receipt in my hand, he froze.