Aveline
Two days.
It's been two damn days since that night when she looked me dead in the eye and told me I was wrong — that there was no mistress, no secret lover, no one in her bed but me.
And I… I broke down. I cried until my chest felt hollow, because I had doubted her.
Ruby went back to her empire — the CEO boardrooms, the shadowed halls of the mafia — but she's been different. Dead serious. Like every second she's not running her world, she's figuring out how to fix me.
Ruby Sun — the woman the entire underworld whispers about like a ghost story, the name that makes men disappear and kingdoms bow — was on her knees for me. Her voice raw, her eyes full of guilt that could drown you, apologizing like I was the only thing worth breaking for.
She's the last person in the world you'd expect to say sorry. And yet… she did. To me.
And if the person you love most in this world is the same one who cut you open… but they're standing there, bleeding themselves dry to make it right — what do you do?
Me? I'd forgive her. Eventually.
Especially when I saw the bruise on her cheek and the thick bandage around her palm.
I didn't ask her yet. Instead, I called Adam and Luna. They were here in twenty minutes flat.
We sat in the living room, and I didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Tell me."
Luna met my eyes, then looked at Adam like she was telling him to spill.
Adam sighed like I'd just ordered him to burn down an entire forest.
"She… cut her palm," he said slowly. "And not by accident."
My brow arched. "Go on."
He glanced at Luna. Her lips pressed together before she finally nodded.
"She was holding a crystal wine glass," Adam continued. "We were talking about something important. Out of nowhere, she just… crushed it in her hand. Hard. Shards tore through her skin. The wine mixed with her blood, dripping onto the floor like some twisted painting."
My stomach turned. "She—what?"
Luna's voice was quieter. "It's true. I bandaged her myself."
"Why?"
"Because of you," Luna said. "Because of the pain she saw in your eyes… because of those pictures. She couldn't handle it."
I felt the sting in my throat before the tears fell.
"And the bruise?"
Adam looked away. "Her grandmother. They fought after you left. You were crying, and in her pride, she didn't come for you. Her grandmother slapped her for it."
I broke. My sobs came fast and messy. Luna wrapped her arms around me, Adam sitting silent with his head bowed.
Four days apart. And in those four days, she'd destroyed herself more than I ever could.
"I should've stayed," I whispered.
Luna shook her head. "Too late for that. Focus on her now. Take care of her. Bring her back. You're the only one who can."
When they left, Mr. Han came to me.
"Has she eaten?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not once. She said she wouldn't eat unless it came from your hand."
My lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I'll cook."
"But madam—"
"I'm her wife. My responsibility. I've already hurt her enough."
The kitchen was warm and quiet, the simmer of soup filling the air. Honey-lemon tea steeped in the corner, citrus and sweetness curling into the air. Barefoot, hair tied in a messy knot, I chopped vegetables with slow, steady strokes.
Two hours later, I heard her footsteps — heavy, deliberate. The kind that announce a queen's arrival even when she's barely standing.
I didn't turn. I knew.
When I did, my breath caught.
Dark circles carved under her eyes, skin pale, her perfect red wolfcut hair messy like she hadn't even looked in a mirror. Her palm still wrapped.
"You're cooking?" Her voice had that same deep, commanding edge… but now laced with exhaustion, like smoke after fire.
I walked toward her. My hand hesitated, then slid into her hair. She stared at me blankly.
I took her wrist, unwrapping the bandage just enough to see the angry cuts — deep, raw, four or five of them, one especially vicious.
"Taking care of you doesn't mean I forgive you," I murmured. "I'm your wife. That's my job. You reckless, stupid mafia."
"You need a hospital."
She gave a humorless chuckle, flexing her fingers until pain made her hiss.
"That's my punishment. And it's still not enough."
Her red eyes were glassy, the kind that could break a person without saying a word.
"If you won't go to the hospital, I'll treat it."
No protest. Just silence.
I sat her on the couch, cleaned the wounds, and re-bandaged them. She hissed, but didn't pull away.
"Come eat," I said.
She obeyed. No argument. No power play. Just sat, waiting like a soldier for orders.
I set the soup and tea in front of her.
"Eat."
She did. Every bite.
"I missed this," she whispered. "I missed you."
I didn't respond. My heartbeat was loud enough to betray me.
After dinner, she went to the bedroom. I followed after cleaning up. She was sitting at the edge of the bed, still in her clothes.
"Stand up."
She tilted her head but rose. I tiptoed, unbuttoning her shirt. My fingers brushed over her dragon tattoo — the one she designed herself — and the little dancer etched into her wrist with the first letter of my name.
She reached for me, but I warned, "Don't. I still don't forgive you."
"I'm sorry," she murmured, and her husky tone still made my pulse stumble.
She changed, lay down. I turned my back, but her arm slid around my waist.
"Ruby Sun—"
"Don't move," she breathed against my neck. "I want to hold you."
Her body was hot. Too hot. I turned, pressed my hand to her forehead. Burning.
"You're sick."
"I don't care. Stay."
So I did. Hugging her back, fingers tangled in her hair, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I still don't forgive you."
But the smile in my voice betrayed me.
We both knew my heart was already betraying me.
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