Chapter 3

At eight o'clock in the evening, I curled up under silk sheets, deliberately letting an unnatural flush spread across my cheeks. After taking a deep breath, I dialed Stephen's phone.

"Stephen?" I made my voice sound weak and frail. "I think I have a fever."

Instant silence on the other end, followed by hurried footsteps.

"What's your temperature? Any other symptoms?" Stephen's voice immediately switched to doctor mode—professional and tense.

"I... I'm not sure. My head feels dizzy, and I'm cold all over." I curled up tighter under the covers, secretly applauding my acting skills.

"I'm coming home right now."

Fifteen minutes later, Stephen burst into the bedroom, still wearing his white coat. He strode quickly to the bedside, his expression focused and worried.

"Let me take a look." He sat on the edge of the bed, his slender fingers gently touching my forehead.

In that instant, I almost abandoned this charade. The warmth from the back of his hand seeped through my skin, carrying the fresh scent of disinfectant and a faint trace of masculine pheromones. My heartbeat truly began to accelerate, but not because of fever.

"You do feel a bit warm." Stephen frowned, getting up to fetch a thermometer. "Open your mouth."

"Stephen..." I weakly grabbed his sleeve. "Could you stay and keep me company? I feel so cold."

Stephen's movements paused, his gaze complex as he looked at me. "I'll get you another blanket. The fever should break by tomorrow morning."

His hand lingered on the back of mine for less than three seconds, but I clearly felt that subtle tremor. What was that? Nervousness? Or...?

"Do you treat your patients this gently too?" I asked tentatively.

"This is different." Stephen avoided my gaze. "You need rest. I'll sleep in the guest room to avoid catching it."

Watching his hurried retreat, my emotions were a tangled mess. He was treating me like a patient, not a wife.

I couldn't sleep all night, my mind replaying Stephen's gentle touch on my forehead and that fleeting emotion in his eyes. What did he mean when he said "this is different"?

At three in the morning, I heard the sound of someone tossing and turning in the guest room next door. Was he having insomnia too?

The next morning, Stephen left fever medication and a note on the nightstand: "If your temperature is normal, you don't need to take more medicine."

Just like that—gone without even showing his face.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at that cold, impersonal note, feeling like I'd been doused with ice water.

What about last night's tenderness? What about last night's concern?

Sitting in my dressing room, looking at my haggard reflection in the mirror, I suddenly realized—perhaps at home, it was too easy for him to escape. Perhaps I needed a scenario where he couldn't easily leave.

If I had an accident at work, as my husband, he surely couldn't maintain that damn "professional distance," could he?

I was fed up with this torturous push and pull.

Today had to bring a resolution—either he'd admit he had feelings for me, or I'd give up completely.

This was the last time.

At two in the afternoon, I stood on the spiral staircase of the photography studio, calculating angles and force in my mind. This "accident" had to look sufficiently real.

"Miss Karolyn, are you ready for the next scene?" an assistant called from below.

"Coming right away!" I deliberately missed a step, my body losing balance. "Ah!"

I steeled myself to let my ankle bear real sprain pain, and it hurt so much that tears came to my eyes. Damn, this was more painful than I'd imagined.

"Oh my God! Call an ambulance!" The crew panicked.

"No ambulance needed," I gritted my teeth against the pain. "Just call my husband. He's a doctor."

Twenty minutes later, Stephen appeared again, this time with a medical kit. He knelt in front of me, professionally examining my ankle.

"Does this hurt?" He gently pressed the injured area, his brow furrowed.

"Mmm..." I deliberately appeared to be in great pain, but inwardly felt a strange satisfaction—finally, he was looking at me intently, touching me. "You're my husband, can't you just take care of me?"

Stephen's hand paused for a moment, then continued the examination. "I think you should see an orthopedic doctor. Getting an X-ray would be safer."

"What?" I looked at him in disbelief. "Can't you just treat it directly?"

"As your husband, I might worry excessively and compromise my professional judgment." Stephen avoided my wounded gaze. "Having a specialist look at it would be safer."

Worry excessively? My heartbeat instantly accelerated. Did this mean he was admitting he cared about me? But why did his tone still sound so distant?

"Fine," I said coldly. "Let's follow your professional recommendation."

Stephen clearly detected the sarcasm in my words, his expression growing even more rigid. "I'll arrange for a car to take you to the hospital."

Watching his retreating figure, the grievance and anger in my heart reached a breaking point.

The next few hours felt like a nightmare. The car Stephen arranged took me to the hospital, where a strange orthopedic doctor examined me, took X-rays, and finally told me it was just a minor sprain. Throughout the entire process, Stephen never appeared.

He said he had to handle an emergency at the hospital.

At midnight, I sat alone on the living room sofa, my ankle wrapped in bandages, holding an ice pack. Although it was only a minor sprain, my heart hurt more than my foot.

Stephen pushed through the door and saw my solitary figure in the darkness. His steps slowed slightly.

"How's your ankle?" His voice was soft, as if afraid to disturb something.

"The doctor said it's nothing serious," I didn't look up. "Thank you for your professional advice."

Stephen handed me a written instruction sheet and a pill bottle. "This is ice application guidance and pain medication. Use according to instructions."

The same tone he'd use with a stranger patient. I finally looked up, tears glistening in my eyes.

"Am I really that repulsive to you?"

Stephen froze as if struck by lightning. "What?"

"You treat patients at the hospital with more warmth than you show me!" My voice began to tremble, four months of grievance and the frustration of failed attempts all erupting at once. "I'm your wife, not your patient!"

"You're not... you're not repulsive." Stephen's voice was soft and hoarse. "The situation is complicated."

"Complicated?" I stood up, the ice pack falling to the floor. "What's complicated about taking care of your own wife?"

Stephen's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. I noticed this detail—every time he was nervous or emotionally agitated, he would clench his fists like this.

"You don't understand..." he said.

"Then explain it to me!" My tears finally spilled over. "What did I do wrong? Why would you rather maintain distance than take one step closer to me?"

Stephen looked at my tear-streaked face, his whole body trembling. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately just shook his head and quickly went upstairs.

I watched his retreating figure, my heart completely sinking.

I hugged my knees and sat on the sofa, sobbing quietly. Two attempts, two failures. I'd played the fool, pretending to be sick and creating accidents, only to be met with deeper coldness.

Was I really overthinking everything?

Perhaps he would never see me as a real wife. Perhaps in his eyes, I was just a roommate who needed "professional care."

The sound of a door closing came from upstairs—soft, but exceptionally clear in the quiet night. That sound was like him closing yet another door between us.

I closed my eyes, feeling that all my efforts over these four months had become a joke. I was a complete failure as a wife, unable even to earn a sincere embrace from my husband.