Chapter 2

Three days after Julian left, a live interview with him aired on the financial channel.

He appeared as a rising star in the medical world, seated beside Serena Vance, the heiress to another pharmaceutical empire.

On screen, they were hailed as "the Sun and Moon of the Industry."

A perfect match of talent and beauty.

The host smiled and asked him charismatically, "Professor Vance, you're a leading authority in cardiothoracic surgery. What inspired you to pursue medicine and choose such a demanding field?"

Julian turned his head slightly, gazing deeply at Serena beside him.

In that moment, the tenderness in his eyes was a sight I hadn't seen in ten years.

The camera perfectly captured a close-up beneath the table.

Their hands, fingers tightly intertwined, seamlessly clasped.

He spoke to billions of viewers worldwide, his voice carrying clearly through the airwaves into my ears.

"To prevent the most important person from ever being lost to illness again."

As soon as he finished, Serena shyly lowered her head and added to the camera,

"And I am that lucky person he snatched back from the jaws of death."

A wave of benevolent laughter and applause erupted on set.

I gripped my cold phone, my stomach churning violently.

Those tightly entwined hands were practically a public declaration of their relationship.

So, his grand ideal of saving lives was for her.

His entire motivation to become "the Bright Star of Medicine" was also for her.

And me?

What was I for these past ten years? A joke? A generous, foolish, self-deluded... sponsor?

A fierce wave of dizziness washed over me. I leaned against the wall, dry-heaving for a long time.

The side effects of chemotherapy were starting to show: hair loss, nausea, bone-deep fatigue.

I dragged my broken body back to that empty house.

The place I once believed would be my lifelong home.

On the dining table, surprisingly, was a note he'd left, tucked under a thermos bowl.

It was Julian's bold, sweeping handwriting.

"There's porridge in the fridge. Stop dieting for the wedding, you've lost too much weight recently."

In that moment, I almost thought I was hallucinating.

Ten years. It was the first time he'd ever actively prepared food for me.

Choking back bitter tears, I fiercely crumpled the note into my chest, as if embracing a person I might never see again.

That heart, which had long turned cold, actually felt a pathetic flicker of warmth.

Maybe he still cared about me.

Maybe he just wasn't good at expressing it.

With this meager hope, I trembling opened the lid of the thermos bowl.

A rich, savory aroma wafted out.

Inside was a meticulously prepared seafood porridge, plump shrimp and dried scallops clearly visible.

My blood ran cold instantly.

I was allergic to seafood.

Severely allergic, enough to trigger anaphylactic shock.

He had known this since the first day he pursued me.

Because back then, I'd been rushed to the emergency room after accidentally eating some shrimp paste at a company dinner.

And seafood porridge, coincidentally, was Serena Vance's favorite food.

I remembered, years ago, when he was still doing his PhD, Serena had been sick in the hospital. He had clumsily learned to make porridge, then carefully carried the thermos, taking a two-hour bus ride to see her.

At the time, I, a fool, thought he was preparing a surprise for me.

A tremendous sense of absurdity and sorrow completely overwhelmed me.

He didn't forget.

He simply mistook me for her.

With trembling hands, I replaced the lid, then tossed the bowl and the note into the trash.

I thought, with a self-deprecating laugh.

Even if I died from a cancer attack in the next second, he'd probably just think I starved myself to death from excessive dieting.

But as a top doctor in the country, could he really not see that something was wrong with me?

Or was he just choosing not to see?