My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me in the ER - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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Mark's expression softened as he took in Olivia's anxious face, his lips curling into that indulgent smile I knew all too well.
From my vantage point, I caught Olivia shooting me a challenging look—one Mark silently endorsed with his usual passive approval. But it barely registered. I just gave a slight nod, my demeanor icy and detached.
Maybe it was the contrast with my usual outbursts—the screaming matches he'd grown accustomed to—but my silence now seemed to unsettle him. For once, he actually disentangled himself from Olivia's grip, his voice softening as he explained, "Rachel, it's just networking. Everyone here is either a client or an employee."
I handed him the carton of milk I'd grabbed on my way out.
"I know."
My presence must have killed the mood, because soon, the crowd trickled out in pairs. Mark lingered, fussing over Olivia—calling her a cab, giving her endless reminders—before finally sliding into the passenger seat.
The drive home was silent. I focused on the road while he dozed beside me.
When we reached the garage, I stepped out first, heading toward the elevator. Then, out of nowhere, Mark yanked me back by the arm, pulling me hard against him just as a car tore past, missing me by inches. My heart hammered in my chest.
"Can't you watch where you're going?" His grip was tight, his voice sharp with worry as he steered me to the safer side of the walkway.
For a second, it was like old times—back when he'd shield me from every little danger, back when I still mattered. But that was a lifetime ago. By the time we reached the elevator, I'd already slipped my hand free. He glanced at me, hesitating, but said nothing.
The next morning, he surprised me by offering to drive me to work.
"I'll take you."
Exhausted from a sleepless night, I agreed, figuring I could catch up on rest. But the moment I opened the car door, I was hit with a wave of pink—glittery decals, cutesy stickers, and, worst of all, a custom pillow on the passenger seat, embroidered with a photo of Mark and Olivia forming a heart with their hands.
"Never thought I'd see the day the CEO's ride looked like a teenage girl's dream car," I remarked dryly.
Mark's face flushed. "Olivia's young. Just let her have her fun—don't make a big deal out of it."
I pointed at the pillow. "Young enough to take couple photos with you?"
But what I really wanted to ask about was the post he'd made the day we filed for divorce—the one of them holding hands over candlelight, captioned:
Two people, one home. Three meals, four seasons. For the rest of our lives, you're my only one.
Yeah. I remembered.
From my vantage point, I caught Olivia shooting me a challenging look—one Mark silently endorsed with his usual passive approval. But it barely registered. I just gave a slight nod, my demeanor icy and detached.
Maybe it was the contrast with my usual outbursts—the screaming matches he'd grown accustomed to—but my silence now seemed to unsettle him. For once, he actually disentangled himself from Olivia's grip, his voice softening as he explained, "Rachel, it's just networking. Everyone here is either a client or an employee."
I handed him the carton of milk I'd grabbed on my way out.
"I know."
My presence must have killed the mood, because soon, the crowd trickled out in pairs. Mark lingered, fussing over Olivia—calling her a cab, giving her endless reminders—before finally sliding into the passenger seat.
The drive home was silent. I focused on the road while he dozed beside me.
When we reached the garage, I stepped out first, heading toward the elevator. Then, out of nowhere, Mark yanked me back by the arm, pulling me hard against him just as a car tore past, missing me by inches. My heart hammered in my chest.
"Can't you watch where you're going?" His grip was tight, his voice sharp with worry as he steered me to the safer side of the walkway.
For a second, it was like old times—back when he'd shield me from every little danger, back when I still mattered. But that was a lifetime ago. By the time we reached the elevator, I'd already slipped my hand free. He glanced at me, hesitating, but said nothing.
The next morning, he surprised me by offering to drive me to work.
"I'll take you."
Exhausted from a sleepless night, I agreed, figuring I could catch up on rest. But the moment I opened the car door, I was hit with a wave of pink—glittery decals, cutesy stickers, and, worst of all, a custom pillow on the passenger seat, embroidered with a photo of Mark and Olivia forming a heart with their hands.
"Never thought I'd see the day the CEO's ride looked like a teenage girl's dream car," I remarked dryly.
Mark's face flushed. "Olivia's young. Just let her have her fun—don't make a big deal out of it."
I pointed at the pillow. "Young enough to take couple photos with you?"
But what I really wanted to ask about was the post he'd made the day we filed for divorce—the one of them holding hands over candlelight, captioned:
Two people, one home. Three meals, four seasons. For the rest of our lives, you're my only one.
Yeah. I remembered.
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