Chapter 3
The entire villa blazed with lights throughout the night.
Private doctors, nurses, and servants streamed in and out, all revolving around Marla.
Elara lay in bed, listening to the commotion outside, remembering three years ago when she’d accidentally cut her finger while slicing fruit. Leander had panicked as if she were dying, calling his private doctor in the middle of the night and insisting on bandaging her wound himself.
“It’s just a scratch,” she’d said, torn between tears and laughter.
But Leander had lifted her hand and kissed the wound gently: “To me, you can’t lose even a single hair.”
Now that same tender care was being lavished on another woman.
Elara turned over, burying her face in her pillow. Tears soaked the fabric, but she bit her lip to keep from making a sound.
She cried silently through the night, until dawn broke and she finally told herself: when the tears run dry, it’s time to let go completely.
The next morning, Elara came downstairs to find Leander sitting at the dining table, patiently coaxing Marla to eat breakfast.
“I really can’t eat any more…” Marla whined.
“Just one more bite, okay?” Leander’s voice carried that familiar indulgence Elara knew so well. “It’s good for the baby.”
Elara walked past them without expression.
Leander looked up and suddenly noticed the scabbed wound on her forehead. He stood quickly: “Elara, what happened to your head?”
Elara’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile: “Don’t you remember? You pushed me yourself.”
Leander froze, the memory of last night flooding back. Guilt flickered across his face: “I’m sorry, I was too worked up yesterday… Let me get some ointment for that.”
Before Elara could refuse, Marla suddenly spoke up: “Leander, I have no appetite for any of this breakfast. I heard… that Elara makes an amazing yam porridge. Could she make some for me to try?”
Leander visibly stiffened, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Elara…” he finally managed, “would you mind?”
Elara’s heart felt crushed by an invisible fist.
Yam porridge.
Those two words cut through her like a dull blade, slicing open her memories.
It was a recipe she’d learned from an old medicine doctor when Leander first took over the company and developed stomach problems from too much business entertaining. She’d been so worried about him.
The first time she’d made it, the porridge had burned and tasted terrible, but he’d eaten every drop and held her close: “Promise me you’ll only make this for me, okay?”
Shed gotten better at it over time, and she had indeed only made it for him.
Until now. Now he was asking her to make it for another woman.
Clara suddenly laughed, the curve of her lips carrying indescribable irony.
So this was how it worked–no matter how sincere the promises, time could erode them all.
Without a word, she walked into the kitchen, her movements practiced as she washed rice and sliced yams.
The scalding steam stung her eyes, but she didn’t shed a single tear.
The porridge was ready quickly, its aroma filling the air. Elara set a bowl in front of Marla and turned to leave.
“Elara…” Leander called out instinctively, his voice tinged with guilt.
But Marla immediately tugged at his sleeve: “Leander, this porridge is so hot…”
His attention instantly shifted as he bent down to help cool Marla’s porridge.
Whatever.
He consoled himself. In a month they’d remarry, and then he’d make it up to her properly.
Late that night, just as Elara had fallen asleep, her bedroom door was kicked open violently.
She opened her eyes to see Leander’s bodyguards in the doorway: “Ma’am, we apologize, but Mr. Everhart has ordered us to take you to the hospital.”
Before she could react, they had her by the arms, dragging her from bed.
The hospital corridor was blindingly white and harsh. Leander stood outside the operating room, his face dark as a storm cloud.
When he saw her arrive, his expression was complex: “Why did you poison the porridge?”
Elara was confused: “What?”
“I’ve told you countless times–I don’t have feelings for Marla,” Leander’s voice simmered with suppressed rage. “Once the baby is born, we can go back to how things were. Why couldn’t you just be patient a little longer?”
Now Elara understood. Marla had been poisoned, and he suspected her.
“It wasn’t me,” her voice trembled. “Why do you automatically assume it was me every time something happens to her?”
“She only drank your porridge today!” Leander’s voice rose sharply. “How can I believe you?”
Pain lanced through Elara’s chest. Just as she was about to respond, the elevator doors opened and Leander’s parents rushed out.
SLAP!
A vicious blow struck Elara’s face, sending her staggering backward as blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.
“You poisonous witch” Leander’s mother shrieked. “It’s bad enough you can’t bear children–now you’re trying to kill our grandson!”
His father was equally furious: “Using such vicious methods–she must be punished according to family law! Make her kneel in the ancestral hall!”
Leander frowned, about to speak
*If you don’t punish her this time, next time she’ll strangle your child with her bare hands!” his mother snapped.
Leander fell silent.
He hit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, watching coldly as Elara was dragged away.
In that moment, Elara’s heart shattered completely.
