Hi Ex, Your Uncle Is My Hubby Now - Chapter 47: Chapter 47

"Can't the police help track him down?" Irene asked. The Tucker family had deep roots and connections in the military, politics, and business world. With that kind of reach, finding one person shouldn't be so difficult.
"It's not that easy," Dorian replied. "Even though Doctor Patt is the honorary director of the Traditional Medicine Clinic, he's never shown his face.
"He only communicates through anonymous letters—one-way correspondence.
"Eight years ago, the Clinic once tried to locate him. But when Doctor Patt caught wind of it, he sent a letter threatening to disappear for good and cut off all contact.
"That scared the whole team into backing off. No one's dared try again since."
Hearing this, Irene finally realized just how impossible it might be to track this man down.
She looked over at Jeremy, who remained silent.
In her previous life, he had died seven months from now—meaning he never found Doctor Patt in time.
And this time… the odds didn't seem any better.
Suddenly, Dorian's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—his father, Mike, was calling.
"Uncle Jeremy, Irene, go ahead and eat. I'm going to take this call," he said, stepping out to the backyard, putting some distance between himself and the others.
Even from far away, Irene could still faintly hear him answer, "Dad."
A quiet scoff broke the silence at the head of the table.
Irene looked up, startled, and saw a faint, mocking smirk tug at Jeremy's lips. Only then did she realize just how strained things were between him and Mike.
The room fell into an awkward silence.
In the spacious dining room, only she and Jeremy remained.
Irene sat in the middle of the table, across from Dorian's seat, both of them more than a yard away from Jeremy.
The setup felt oddly familiar—just like the time she'd shared a meal alone with him a few days ago.
Then Jeremy spoke, catching her off guard, "Don't like the food?"
The dishes on the table were all mild and clean, made to suit both his and Dorian's preferences.
In wealthy families, meals were all about preserving the natural taste—low oil, low salt, nothing overpowering.
But Irene had grown up in the countryside, raised on spicy, rich, flavorful food. Tonight's dinner, though beautifully prepared, wasn't quite to her taste.
Still, it wasn't exactly inedible.
She picked up a stalk of carrot, gave it a try—it was fresh and crisp. "It's good," she said politely.
Only after speaking did it hit her—Jeremy was a man with no appetite, a patient barely able to eat.
She glanced at him apologetically, but to her surprise, he picked up the fork and took a bite of the same carrot.
He chewed a few times with a blank expression before swallowing. "Mediocre," he said flatly.
Irene blinked, caught off guard by his reaction.
Something tugged at her, a small, irrational impulse. She picked up a piece of stir-fried matsutake mushroom and ate it. "This one's really tasty."
Jeremy heard her, followed suit, and tried a slice. "Barely passable," he muttered.
Then, after a pause, he added, "Not as good as the ones you brought last time."
That surprised her. Encouraged, Irene kept tasting more dishes. Whether she liked them or not, she exaggerated her reactions, making a show of how delicious they were.
And, to her surprise, Jeremy slowly followed her lead, sampling a few more bites here and there.
By the end of it, he'd eaten more in these few minutes than he had all day.
After a while, he finally set his fork down.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked at her and said, "That's enough, Irene. I'm not a child—you don't need to coax me."
So he'd noticed. He knew she was trying to cheer him up through food.
Looking at the spread on the table, Jeremy said quietly, "My taste buds are fading. I can hardly taste anything anymore."
Irene felt a sharp ache in her chest.
Suddenly remembering something, she stood up and walked into the living room. From her tote bag, she pulled out a small aromatherapy oil.
Returning to the dining room, she held it out to him with both hands.
"What is it?" he asked, eyeing the pouch but making no move to take it.