Chapter 2
Denver's voice was low and quiet—he paused for a few seconds, seemingly surprised that everything had gone so smoothly.
When he finally spoke, there was a trace of excitement in his voice.
“I really look forward to you coming here. I’ll take care of everything on my end—don’t worry.”
After hanging up, I ordered some takeout for myself.
Half an hour later, just as the delivery arrived, Winston returned to the villa with his parents.
He walked in, saw the untouched dishes on the table, and me unpacking the takeout instead. Without even removing his coat, he stormed over.
“Bianca, what are you doing? I spent three hours making these dishes and you didn’t even take a bite! What is this supposed to mean?”
I glanced at him, my voice as cold as ice. “I don’t like lotus seed and white fungus soup. That’s Kiara’s favorite.”
Winston was momentarily speechless, his face stiffening.
Kiara put on a pitiful expression and looked at me.
“Sis, don’t blame Winston. I told him you liked the same soup as I do. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
His mother, sitting nearby, couldn’t hold her tongue. She gently comforted Kiara while throwing me a sharp glare.
“Look at that—your sister is more understanding than you. I really don’t know what my son ever saw in you. So what if you can run a company? A woman acting like a man in business—how unbecoming. You’d be better off having a child and focusing on being a good wife and mother. That’s what truly matters.”
I’d heard those words so many times over the past five years, I could recite them backward. For Winston’s sake, I endured it all.
But looking back now, I realize—I owed myself an apology.
“Save your advice for yourself, Mother-in-law. I’m not like you—good for nothing besides popping out babies.”
No sooner had I finished speaking than Winston slammed the table, sending dishes crashing to the floor.
Shards of ceramic flew up and sliced across the top of my foot.
I didn’t feel the pain at first—only when blood began to bead on my skin did a dull ache set in.
“Bianca, are you insane? These are my parents! Yours too! Is that a way to speak to your elders?”
I gritted my teeth against the pain, letting out a cold laugh.
“Do they act like elders? Since they dislike me so much, why not give them what they want? Let’s make this fake divorce official.”
Winston’s expression changed instantly. His anger vanished, replaced by uncertainty.
He stepped forward and crouched down in front of me, as if trying to say something, but then caught sight of the blood on my foot.
His face twisted with panic and frustration.
“You’re hurt? Why didn’t you say something?!”
I said nothing.
If he truly cared—if he ever had—he would’ve noticed the moment I walked in.
He wouldn’t have ignored the diagnosis report I brought home.
Winston cursed under his breath and rushed into the bedroom to get the first aid kit.
When he came back out, he was holding something else too—the infertility diagnosis I had casually left on the nightstand.
Without saying a word, he knelt to clean the wound and bandage my foot.
Then he finally spoke.
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