Chapter 1

Ian's POV:

I barely remembered how I made it home from the hospital.

By the time my wife, Agnes Trelawny, returned, the house was already a complete wreck.

I smashed our wedding photo on the floor, scattering shards of glass everywhere. I tore every red wedding character off the walls and even wrecked the marriage bed.

I sat slumped beside the sofa, surrounded by empty liquor bottles.

Agnes stood by the door and fell silent for a moment. Then she walked over and reached for my hand, checking it for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

I jerked my hand away, unable to contain the rage boiling inside me any longer.

I glared at her with bloodshot eyes and demanded, “Why?”

Agnes arched an eyebrow. “Why did I marry you?”

She seemed to give the question some serious thought before suddenly breaking into a smile.

“You’re gentle, attentive, and meticulous. You were even willing to give up your career and step away from the spotlight to stay home for me. You’re husband material. Nathan, on the other hand, is a spoiled rich boy. You can’t even count on him to do the dishes.”

The more casually she admitted it all, the more my heart ached.

Agnes noticed my reddened eyes and slipped into my embrace. “Come on. Didn’t I already tell you? Nathan and I will never work out. From now on, we’ll just be raising the kid together from now on. That’s all.”

I shoved her away and roared, “Then why would you do this to me? Why marry me when you’re already having his child?!”

One was the woman I had loved for years. The other was my best friend. Together, they had made a fool of me, stringing me along without a clue.

I clutched my chest, struggling to breathe beneath the weight of the truth.

Agnes did not answer. She simply stared at me as though I were some lunatic.

After a long silence, she rose to her feet, and said in an impatient tone, “Stop making a scene. Nathan’s stomach problems are acting up again. He’s waiting for me to make him some chicken soup.”

I stood rooted to the spot, watching her move about the kitchen.

Agnes had only just given birth, yet she was willing to push through the pain to cook for him.

She turned on the stove, chopped the ingredients, and deftly skimmed the scum from the simmering broth.

In the three years we were together, she had never once cooked for me. I simply assumed she did not know how. It turned out that the woman who never went near a kitchen knew exactly what to do.

Without meaning to, I recalled something Nathan Gray had once told me his ex-girlfriend had gone to extraordinary lengths to cure his picky eating habits.

A pampered heiress who had never lifted a finger around the house had spent day after day in the kitchen, experimenting with recipes just for him.

Once, she had even blown up her family’s kitchen. I imagined what that scene must have looked like.

Now, as I watched Agnes work, every detail Nathan had once shared with me began to fall into place.

All those moments I had deliberately brushed aside came flooding back.

Whenever we went somewhere by car, Nathan was always the first to remember Agnes’ motion sickness pills.

Whenever we ate together, Nathan would casually remind me, “She doesn’t eat scallions.”

Whenever Nathan’s stomach acted up, Agnes always reacted a beat faster than I did.

Whenever Nathan fell ill, Agnes would abandon an entire room full of people in the middle of a meeting and rush to the hospital.

Before I knew it, the kitchen fell silent, leaving only the faint simmer of the soup.

I looked at Agnes, at the focused expression on her face as she watched the simmering pot.

Then, in a hoarse voice, I called her name.

“Agnes, let’s get a divorce.”