I'm Allergic to Your Infidelity!

Frank walked in just as I finished settling on the design for my wedding invitation. He spotted the card on the marble table and frowned.

"You haven't returned my texts or answered my calls," he said.

I stared at him for a moment before realization dawned. The number he had been calling and texting had been abandoned over a month ago. And he was only finding out now?

When I remained silent, his expression softened. "Look, Vivi just got pregnant, and you know what pregnant women are like with their mood swings. I think we should postpone our wedding for a while… at least until she's given birth."

I snorted. "Oh, don't worry about that wedding invitation. It's not like you're the groom."

He gave me an unruffled look. "Still putting on a tough act, Freya? You haven't even changed the venue for our wedding. How am I supposed to believe the groom has been replaced?"

I clenched my fists. Had he seriously forgotten why I had insisted on that venue despite everything?

Because that was the city my mother had been looking toward when she died. I had cried until I was sick with grief, and he had held me close and said, "Mrs. Capra must have really missed Annaberg. Let's have our wedding there in her memory so her soul can finally rest, knowing you've returned to her hometown."

Who my husband was had never mattered. Annaberg was the only place where I would ever hold my wedding.

"But..."

There it was. The inevitable "but."

"I think this wedding is a little too extravagant. It's drawing too much attention, especially from Vivi. She can barely eat whenever she's upset." He leaned forward. For the first time, I couldn't read the expression on his face. "I told you to postpone the wedding, but you wouldn't listen. So I had no choice but to give you a warning."

He slid his phone across the table.

A sinking feeling settled in my chest as I looked at the screen.

My blood ran cold.

Several familiar faces were swinging baseball bats, smashing the artwork I had poured my heart and soul into. In less than five minutes, they reduced to rubble the collection I had spent 20 years preparing for my exhibition.

I glared at him, fury simmering beneath my skin. My fists trembled as I clenched them tighter.

He knew that holding an art exhibition in Annaberg had been my mother's dearest and final wish. He knew I had waited for this moment for what felt like a lifetime, ever since I chose to follow in her footsteps and become an artist.

I snatched a glass from the table and hurled it at him. "Fuck you! You think you can just walk all over me? I'm a Capra! You won't get away with this!"

Frank didn't dodge.

The glass shattered against his forehead in an explosion of blood, its fragments scattering across the floor and breaking again as they bounced.

His expression darkened, and the air between us turned icy.

Then he noticed the blood dripping from my finger.

The anger vanished from his face. He let out a quiet sigh. "It's hard to paint with an injured finger. You'll only be upset again."

Ignoring the blood streaming down his own forehead, he retrieved the first-aid kit and carefully cleaned and bandaged my wound.

It reminded me of that night.

We had kept vigil beside my mother's body at the memorial hall. His eyes had been bloodshot, and his hands had trembled as he gently treated the lash wounds that covered my body.