Chapter 3

Water still dripped from his hair. When he noticed me looking at him, he offered a faint smile.

"After all these years, your cooking still hasn't improved at all. Then again, I supposed I never could bring myself to let you do the cooking."

I froze for a moment, turning his words over in my mind.

What did he mean by “I never could bring myself to let you do the cooking?”

It was a strange thing to say.

But I didn't dare ask.

Standing beside me, he made my heart race.

I was terrified he would discover what I had been trying to do.

Fortunately, he didn't seem to suspect anything.

As naturally as if he belonged there, he took the cookware from my hands and began cooking with practiced ease.

For a moment, I didn't know what to do.

He was right beside me, so escaping was impossible.

Yet staying this close to him filled me with fear.

My conflicted thoughts didn't last long.

While moving between pots and pans, the masked man spared me a glance.

"Honey, could you pass me the soy sauce?"

Lost in my thoughts, I instinctively turned and grabbed the soy sauce the moment I heard him speak.

Only after placing it securely in his hand did I suddenly remember that he wasn't my husband.

"Honey, could you get me the cooking wine too?"

His tone was casual, as though we were an ordinary married couple happily preparing dinner together.

For the next several minutes, the kitchen echoed with nothing but his voice.

"Honey, I need the black cardamom."

"Honey, pass me..."

"Honey..."

He seemed addicted to calling me that.

He kept me constantly occupied, sending me scurrying around the kitchen until I temporarily forgot my own predicament.

By the time we sat down at the dining table, I found myself staring blankly at the three dishes and soup laid out before us.

Every dish was something I loved.

He picked up a piece of meat and placed it onto my plate.

"Try it. Is it still the flavor you like?"

I lifted the meat to my mouth.

The moment I tasted it, my eyes widened in shock.

It tasted exactly like the meat Jayden used to make.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You don't like it?"

"No. I love it."

A faint chuckle escaped him before he began eating.

I quietly raised my eyes and studied him.

From every angle, in every detail, he was Jayden.

The more convinced I became of that fact, the more my heart ached.

Could it be...

Could the person determined to kill me really be my husband?

My heart sank.

Just as I was at a loss for what to do next, a sharp sting shot through my finger.

Only then did I realize I had absentmindedly brushed against the fruit knife on the table.

A thin cut had opened across my fingertip.

At the sound of my cry, he immediately set down his forks and got up to look for something.

A moment later, he returned carrying a first-aid kit and crouched beside me.

He gently took my hand, pulled out a bottle of antiseptic, and disinfected the cut.

It wasn't even a serious wound, yet he treated it with the utmost care.

The focused expression on his face made him seem even more like my husband.

My heartbeat quickened slightly at the sight.

He lowered his head and softly blew on the cut.

"Does it still hurt?"

I shook my head, my face burning.

I tried to pull my hand away, but he caught it and said, "You used to run to me with every little scratch and ask me to fuss over you. Why are you suddenly so shy?"

His words struck like a bolt of lightning, shattering the illusion I had been desperately clinging to.

It was true.

I had always been spoiled.

In the past, even the smallest cut would leave me teary-eyed as I carried it straight to Jayden, demanding sympathy and comfort.

I stared at the man still carefully tending to my wound.

But the despair of dying seven times finally overwhelmed me.

Tears spilled uncontrollably down my face.

My voice trembled as I choked out,

"Who are you, really?!"

A gentle smile appeared on his lips as he wiped away my tears.

"I am your husband, Jayden Dean. Honey, don't be afraid. You haven't mistaken me for someone else."

I looked at that face—a face both intimately familiar and unbearably strange.

A tear slid down my cheek.

If my husband truly wanted me dead, how could I possibly escape?

He gently pulled me into his arms.

I was drowning in grief when the doorbell suddenly rang again.

Then came a familiar voice from outside the door.

"Honey, I'm home!"

The moment I heard it, I jerked my head up from the man's embrace.

At a glance, I caught the strange curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth...