Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ivy
I was shaking when I saw Cecilia's post yesterday—the one clearly aimed at me.
She'd attached a photo of Damian working, captioned: Working together again after two years. Innocent enough on the surface.
But when someone asked in the comments if they were a couple, Cecilia only responded with an ambiguous smiling emoji. That smile pierced through me like a needle in the eye. I wanted to trust Damian, but that didn't mean I could just let this woman with obvious designs on my husband stay near him.
So I chose to have a serious talk with Damian. His attitude crushed me. When he walked away, I even wondered if this marriage was worth saving anymore. The thought lasted only seconds before vanishing. Because I realized—I loved Damian. I didn't want to leave him.
Besides, I knew who Damian was.
Someone rational, almost cold-blooded—how could he possibly cheat in a marriage? As long as I kept being a good wife, Cecilia would leave eventually. I forced down the unease churning inside me, trying desperately to convince myself.
That stupid fight left me sleepless, but I still dragged myself up the moment my internal clock went off. When I reached the staircase landing, though, the kitchen was already filled with the rich scent of truffle and baking.
The dining table had been set with delicate French omelets, salmon sandwiches, and caramel macchiatos with careful latte art.
"Morning, Ivy." Cecilia wore a skimpy nightgown, the hem barely covering her thighs.
She was gracefully setting down the last two porcelain plates.
She turned and gave me a perfunctory smile, her tone so natural you'd think she was the lady of the house.
"You looked tired last night, so I gave Mrs. Mackenzie the day off.
Want to try my breakfast? Damian used to love these flavors. "
Footsteps. Damian came downstairs in a sharp navy suit, cold and crisp, as if last night's argument in the study had never happened.
"Morning." His response was flat. His gaze flickered when he saw the breakfast—clearly not made by me—but he said nothing. Just pulled out the head chair and sat down.
Watching this, I pinched my palm and swallowed the words already on my tongue, "Let me remake your coffee." Instead, I sat across from him with a self-deprecating slump.
"Oh, Damian, you look so sharp today." Cecilia smiled, reaching out with slender fingers for a slice of whole wheat toast from the bread basket.
I watched her ignore me completely, watched her expertly spread a thick layer of salted butter, then naturally place the toast beside Damian's plate.
My breath caught. A flutter of hope—maybe Damian would push it away? Maybe he'd frown and scold Cecilia? In two years of marriage, I knew he never accepted this kind of intimate feeding gesture.
Damian glanced at her. His eyes flickered. Then, under my gaze, he reached out and took it. Took a bite.
"Thanks," he said.
I couldn't believe my eyes. For that instant, my world spun. Two years of marriage, and Damian had never accepted any intimacy at the table from me. He always said, "Ivy, maintain proper dining etiquette."
The second day after our wedding, I'd brought him breakfast I'd made myself, worked up all my courage to hold food to his mouth.
He'd frowned and turned away. "I can do it myself.
" I'd thought it was just his habit, that he didn't like anyone getting too close, even his wife.
I accepted it. Understood it. For two whole years.
But now Cecilia casually offered him toast, and he just took it, didn't even hesitate for half a second. I should've realized yesterday, when he let her drink from his coffee cup.
Humiliation and loss crashed over me. He wasn't averse to intimacy. He was just averse to intimacy with me.
"By the way, about that Paris Art Fund overseas acquisition we discussed yesterday afternoon.
" Cecilia smiled, switching to her crisp professional voice.
"I looked over those trust clauses again last night.
They seem to be exploiting loopholes in the European Cultural Heritage Protection Act, trying to force liquidation of underlying assets. "
Damian set down his paper and turned to Cecilia. His voice carried approval. "You caught that? I had the Wall Street legal team checking that same angle this morning. If they're trying to short through that loophole, our early investments could be vulnerable."
They launched into conversation. All those obscure financial terms and legal clauses formed an invisible barrier, sealing them both inside.
I sat across from them, watching their occasional eye contact and easy rapport. Helplessness flooded through me.
I pinched my palm, trying to break this suffocating atmosphere. I took a deep breath and smiled.
"Damian, I heard the Paris art market has been pretty volatile lately. If they're competing, shouldn't we consider domestic art fund investments instead? Lower risk, right?"
My words brought the discussion to an abrupt halt.
In that silence, my heart hammered with nerves, because I never used to interrupt Damian's work. But I knew I had to say something, prove I was sitting at this table too, not just some transparent decoration being ignored.
Damian turned to me, brow furrowing, his eyes flashing with impatience and faint mockery.
"Ivy, you don't understand these complex acquisitions." His voice was ice-cold, carrying the judgment of someone looking down from above. "You just need to handle household matters. Don't waste your energy on this meaningless stuff."
Humiliation crashed over me like freezing water.
Meaningless? I woke at five every morning to manage everything for him—in his mouth, just routine household tasks.
Like some housewife who could only hover around the stove, no thoughts of her own, not even qualified to discuss his work.
Yet the woman beside him says a few words and she's professional.
Two years married to him, and I didn't even have the right to speak.
My stomach clenched. My fingers tightened unconsciously around my fork. I opened my mouth but couldn't force out a single word.
Cecilia blinked innocently beside him. From my angle, I could see the smile curving her lips.
She tugged gently on Damian's sleeve, her voice soft. "Damian, don't be so harsh. Mrs. Wentworth's just concerned about you. But... where were we? About clause fourteen on liquidation..."
Damian stopped looking at me, turned back to her, and resumed their discussion.
I sat across from them, feeling my heart grow as cold as the sunny-side-up egg on my plate.
That look of indifference and annoyance from Damian hit like a punch to my chest, bitterness and suffocation flooding in.
I forced myself to sit politely through breakfast. The moment Damian left the estate for his office, I couldn't suppress the panic and dejection anymore. I fled to the kitchen.
For two years, whenever I felt troubled, lost in this cold manor, I'd numb myself with baking and cooking. Only when creating sweet little cakes and fragrant dishes could I barely reclaim some sense of freedom and existence as "Ivy."
I picked up a knife, mechanically chopping ingredients, forcing myself not to think about that image of Damian taking toast from Cecilia's hand this morning.
Not until dessert after dessert came out of the oven did my mood improve slightly.
"Click." The automatic kitchen door suddenly opened. Cecilia walked in wearing a breezy camisole dress, went straight to the massive double-door fridge, and grabbed a sparkling water.
She didn't leave immediately. Instead, she leaned against the counter, leisurely watching the ingredients I was cutting.
"Ivy, making dinner?" Cecilia's gaze fell on the neatly diced carrots on my cutting board. She laughed lightly. "Damian doesn't like carrots. As his wife, didn't you know that?"
My knife paused. I didn't look at her, forced down the bitterness churning inside, and kept my tone cold. "I know. They're just garnish for the beef stew, for flavor. If Damian doesn't eat them, I'll pick them out."
"Pick them out?" Cecilia raised an eyebrow, stepped closer, eyes full of theatrical amusement. "Ivy, you've been with him two years and you still don't understand him. You think it's just picky eating?"
I finally stopped cutting and turned to face her directly. "What do you mean?"
"I'm allergic to carrots." Cecilia's lips curved with unmistakable smugness—I swear I saw it there.
"Back in college, when we were dating, a dish had hidden carrot juice in it.
I ate it by mistake and went into anaphylactic shock.
Damian stayed by my hospital bed all night.
So after that, as long as I was near him, absolutely no trace of carrot was allowed at his table—I think you'd better swap out that garnish. "
My brain went blank for a moment, my fingertips turning ice-cold. I didn't know what to say. All those "dislikes" of Damian's that I'd so carefully memorized—they were just habits he'd formed to protect another woman.
Two whole years. I'd thought I was gradually understanding him, thought those details I'd remembered were part of our marriage's intimacy. But now, with one sentence from Cecilia, it shattered into the most absurd joke.
But I clenched my palms, refused to show any sign of breaking down under her gaze. I needed to hear this from Damian himself.
I pulled on a smile, turned, and met her challenging stare head-on.
"Cecilia, I think you're forgetting—that's in the past. You're just friends now.
Damian never mentioned this to me in two years, which means he's moved forward, stopped caring long ago.
As his wife, I know exactly what matters to him now. "
"Friends?"