Chapter 3
The elevator doors slid open to the ground floor, and I strode out without hesitation, my face devoid of emotion.
I needed to escape the suffocating weight pressing down on me.
Dylan Watson had always been an attentive lover. In the early days, he remembered my cycle, stocking up on sanitary pads, painkillers, and hot water before I even needed them. He’d pull me into his arms, his warm hands gently massaging my stomach to ease the pain.
But now, that tenderness belonged to someone else.
The sky, which had been clear moments ago,
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suddenly darkened as a fierce wind howled through the streets, and rain poured down in relentless sheets.
A sharp gust sent a chill through me, and I couldn’t help but shivered.
Three hours had passed since our scheduled appointment, and he was still nowhere to be found.
I lowered my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
People always choose what matters most to them–and discard whatever is insignificant.
Taking a deep breath, I wrapped my arms around myself and made my way toward the exit, willing my emotions back under control.
Just then, someone collided into me, jolting
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me back two steps.
“Claire?”
I lifted my gaze and found Dylan Watson standing before me, his clothes damp from the rain.
“I got caught up in an urgent work matter,” he said, his voice rushed. “That’s why I couldn’t make it on time.”
I stared at him, my expression unreadable.
“You seem fine, though. Nothing serious, right?”
Still, I said nothing. His patience began to wear thin.
“I wasn’t avoiding you on purpose, Claire. Do you really have to be upset about this?”
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Just as the tension thickened, a delicate voice called out from behind us.
“Doctor Watson, there you are… I feel so dizzy.”
I turned and saw Lily Hall approaching, looking frail and vulnerable–like an entirely different person from the one I had encountered in the elevator.
Dylan immediately moved toward her, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders.
“Doctor Watson, this doesn’t seem right,” Lily murmured, casting me a coy glance. “Claire might be upset if she sees you like this… Maybe you should give the jacket to her instead?”
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Dylan said. “What does it matter? You’re already weak, and on your period no less. You can’t afford to catch a cold. Claire’s strong–she doesn’t need it.”
His voice softened as he turned back to Lily. “I have some chicken soup for you in the car. Let’s get you inside so you can drink it while it’s still warm.”
He smiled at her, warm and doting, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Around us, people were beginning to stare.
Maybe to bystanders, they must have looked like the perfect couple–while I was nothing more than an unnecessary extra.
“Claire,” Dylan said, barely glancing at me. “I only have one umbrella. I’ll take Lily to the car first, then come back for you.”
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Before I could say a word, he had already turned away, leading Lily through the rain without a second thought.
Under that single umbrella, he tilted it toward her, shielding her from the downpour–just like he used to do for me.
I wasn’t even standing in the rain, yet my face felt unbearably wet.
I went home alone in the end.
Perhaps it was the rain and the wind, but by midnight, I had developed a fever, slipping into a hazy dream.
In my dream, I saw Dylan Watson at
seventeen–my Dylan Watson, with eyes full of me and only me.
Back then, he came from a poor family, just a
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penniless student struggling to get by.
One evening, we were strolling down the street when we passed a bakery. A lavish cake sat in the display window, so exquisite that it held my gaze.
I had always had a sweet tooth, and the sight of desserts never failed to slow my steps.
When I finally looked away, I caught the flicker of despondency in his eyes.
I forced a bright smile to comfort him, taking the two small cupcakes he had bought with the one dollars in his hand.
“Dylan, these are just as sweet and delicious. That expensive cake? I wouldn’t even dare eat it–I don’t deserve something so fancy.”
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Later, on my birthday, he surprised me with that very cake, bought with the money he had saved from handing out flyers for a month.
It was winter. His hands were raw and chapped from the cold, red with painful cracks. I couldn’t hold back my tears.
He wiped them away gently, his voice warm and steady.
“Claire, you’re the most precious girl in my heart. You deserve the best this world has to offer.”
That night, I cried my heart out, and that cake became a memory etched deep inside
- me.
From then on, whenever Dylan Watson upset me, all he had to do was buy me a cake,
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and I would soften, forgiving him without hesitation.
It was our unspoken understanding.
Suddenly, my phone rang.
Frowning, I picked up.
Dylan Watson’s voice came through the receiver, but I could barely make out his words. In the background, I vaguely heard Lily Hall calling his name.
I furrowed my brows, my voice a soft
murmur.
“Dylan… I want cake…”
I didn’t know how long I slept, but hunger eventually woke me.
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Just as I stepped into the kitchen to find something to eat, Dylan Watson walked in, soaking wet from head to toe.
I froze for a moment but then resumed rummaging through the cabinets, ignoring him.
He stepped forward, wrapping his arms. around me from behind–a familiar embrace, as if we were still the same inseparable. couple we once had been.
“You’ve lost weight,” he murmured. “You don’t even feel the same in my arms anymore.”
A wave of nausea washed over me. I shoved him away, my voice sharp.
“What’s wrong with you? If you want something to hold, go find your Lily Hall.”
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The tenderness in his face vanished, replaced by a dark, brooding expression.
“I told you, Lily is just my patient. She has depression–I was only being nice to her to keep her stable.”
“You said you wanted cake, so I left Lily Hall in the rain just to get one for you. How much longer are you going to keep this up?”
Hearing this, my gaze shifted to the cake he had placed on the table.
What was this supposed to be? A peace offering without an apology? A silent demand for me to swallow my grievances yet again?
Without hesitation, I turned and tossed the cake into the trash.
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“Claire King, are you playing games with me?”
Dylan Watson’s voice rose, sharp and angry.
But my eyes remained locked on the ruined cake in the garbage–mango cake, shattered into a mess of cream and crumbs.
“Dylan Watson,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’m allergic to mango.”
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