Chapter 1

The candle from our fifth-anniversary dinner was still flickering when my husband, Ethan, clutched his chest and collapsed onto the dining room floor.

I called 911 like a madwoman, my fingers trembling so violently I could barely hold my phone.

For the next three days and nights, I camped outside the ICU. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, and my tears dried up after praying a thousand times.

Finally, he was out of danger and moved to a regular ward.

Dragging my exhausted body, I wiped him down, fed him water, and massaged his limbs. My head was spinning from exhaustion, but I didn't dare close my eyes.

On the morning of the fourth day, he slowly opened his eyes.

I wept with joy and leaned in close to hear what he wanted to say.

But his voice, though weak and raspy, was incredibly clear:

"Olivia... let’s have Clara move into our guest room."

I froze, thinking I had misheard him.

Clara Higgins was the private caretaker we hired after he was admitted. She was in her early fifties and reportedly very hardworking.

"She’s lived such a tragic life," Ethan wheezed, his eyes filled with a tenderness that felt entirely foreign to me. "She married the wrong guy when she was young, got scammed out of all her savings by her ex-husband, and her son abandoned her... She has no one to rely on."

Right then, Clara walked in with a basin of water. Hearing his words, she "tripped" on the bedframe. Her body went soft, and her hand "accidentally" brushed against the back of Ethan's hand.

Ethan turned his hand over and gently patted hers. His voice grew firmer.

"After I get discharged, let Clara live in our guest room. She can help with cooking and cleaning."

He paused, avoiding my gaze. "Or... you can let her stay in our apartment in the city for now. You can move to the suburban villa. It’s fine, you drive to work anyway."

I could not believe my ears.

"And I want to give her five hundred dollars a month from my salary as a stipend and retirement fund. Just so she has something to rely on when she’s older."

Five hundred dollars wasn't a lot. But letting a stranger move into our home? Forcing me out of our primary apartment?

I looked at Clara, who was standing there with her head bowed innocently, though her body was remarkably well-kept for her age.

My heart went completely cold. I actually laughed out loud.

"Ethan, why don’t we just get a divorce? Then you can marry her and take care of her for the rest of your life. How about that?"

"Olivia! How can you be so heartless?!"

Ethan sat up in the hospital bed, his face flushed with anger. The IV line in his hand began to backflow with blood.

On our fifth anniversary, the moment he collapsed, my world had shattered.

Three days and nights of sleepless vigil—and all I got in return was him waking up and immediately defending another woman.

"Ethan, you just escaped death," my voice shook. "And the very first thing you do when you open your eyes is plan the future of a caretaker you’ve known for three days?"

But to him, I was just cold-blooded. "Do you have any empathy? Do you know how much Clara has suffered? She doesn't even have a decent place to sleep!"

Clara immediately stepped forward, her eyes red, her voice cracking with tears.

"Mr. Vance, please don't fight with Mrs. Vance because of me... It’s all my fault. I’m useless. I made Mrs. Vance angry... I’m fine, really. I'm used to it..."

As she spoke, she threw me a timid glance, then quickly looked down, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her faded sweater.

I ignored her completely and went to find the doctor.

On my way back, at the corner of the hallway, I heard her speaking on the phone in a light, cheerful tone.

"...Don't worry, the old guy is soft-hearted. This illness made him even more dependent on me... The apartment? It's only a matter of time..."

Seeing me, she hung up instantly, reverting to her pitiful, victim face.

"Mrs. Vance..."

I walked past her coldly and returned to the room.

Ethan was throwing a fit at the nurse, demanding that only Clara feed him water.

Seeing me enter, his anger flared.

"Olivia, look at how attentive Clara is! When you feed me, you're always so careless. She always tests the temperature first so I don’t burn myself!"

I suddenly recalled that whenever Clara fed him water, her body pressed incredibly close to him. Her fingers would "accidentally" graze his lips and chin.

So, this was the "warmth" he was craving.

The last ember of affection in my heart died out.

I pointed at Clara, who was peeling an apple, and spoke to Ethan, word by word:

"It’s either her or me in our home. Choose."