Chapter 3

"It's intestinal metaplasia. It's a precancerous lesion," Dr. Evans said, looking at me with a serious expression.

"It doesn't mean it will definitely turn into cancer, but we must treat it seriously."

"No spicy or irritating food. Eat regular meals. Regular check-ups. Surgery might be needed if things worsen."

"What if I leave it untreated?" I asked.

"You're still young, Angie. Don't gamble with your life."

Dr. Evans handed me the report. I took it.

Stepping out of the clinic, the afternoon sun felt blindingly hot.

I dialed Hudson's number. It rang eight times before he finally picked up.

"What's up?" Hudson's voice sounded clearly annoyed.

In the background, Fiona was giggling.

"Hudson, should we put this cabinet here?"

"I went to the hospital today..." I started.

"Are you okay? Oh, right."

Hudson cut me off.

"I told you yesterday, Fiona needs help moving today. Since you're free, come over and help her pack."

I fell silent.

"Hello? Lost your tongue again?"

"Okay."

"Great. Ten tomorrow morning. I'll text you the address."

The line went dead. I looked at the call duration: twenty-four seconds.

He didn't ask why I went to the hospital. He didn't even ask if I was okay.

The next day, I went to Fiona's new apartment.

Hudson was using a screwdriver to assemble a wardrobe for Fiona.

Fiona, wearing an apron, poked her head out of the kitchen.

"Angie! You're here!"

"Could you help me wash those new plates and bowls? I just bought them."

I walked over and rolled up my sleeves. The tap water was ice-cold, stinging my skin.

"Hudson, you have to cook the very first meal in my new home, okay?" Fiona leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

"Sure. What do you want?" Hudson asked without looking up.

"Spicy roast chicken!"

Hudson put down his screwdriver and turned to look at me.

"Angie, be a sweetheart and run to the grocery store to grab some ingredients."

The plate in my hand slipped, clattering against the edge of the sink with a dull thud.

Cooking a housewarming dinner for another woman, and sending me to do the grocery run.

"Okay," I said.

During our three years together, I had become too accustomed to saying "okay."

As I walked out of the apartment, a dull pain began to bloom in my stomach.

On my way back from the grocery store, the pain intensified.

I had to squat down by a flowerbed on the street, cold sweat drenching my back.

I waited there for ten minutes before I could barely stand up again.

An hour later, Hudson served the steaming, aromatic roast chicken.

The spicy scent filled the air, triggering a sharp sting in my stomach.

He carved a large piece of chicken and placed it in Fiona's bowl.

"Try this. I made sure to put less chili for you."

He remembered to put less spice for Fiona.

But at our dinners, he had never once remembered my condition.

I stood up and grabbed my purse. "I'm going home. My stomach feels a bit off."

Hudson looked up at me briefly, then went back to serving Fiona.

"Drink some warm water when you get back."

"Angie, are you sure you don't want to stay? It tastes amazing!" Fiona asked with a fake pout.

"No, thank you."

That night, the stomach pain was so bad I couldn't even lie flat.

I curled up on the sofa. My phone screen lit up.

Hudson had posted on his Instagram.

In the photo, he and Fiona were holding wine glasses, smiling brightly.

The caption read: [New home, new beginnings. ]

The comment section was bustling.

[Is she your girlfriend?]

[She's gorgeous!]

Hudson didn't reply to any of them, nor did he deny it.

I searched through all my drawers but couldn't find my stomach meds.

I opened my chat with Hudson. [My stomach hurts really badly.]

I stared at the screen for ten seconds, then deleted it.

The next morning, I received an official email from my company.

The headquarters in Finland was looking for an exchange financial analyst for a joint research project. The contract was for three years.

In the attachment, the contact person's name was Albert Davis.

I stared at that email for a long time.

Three years. Far enough, long enough.

My phone vibrated. It was Hudson.

"What is wrong with you?"

"I told you, I wasn't feeling well."

"You always complain about that minor stomach issue. Aren't you tired of it?"

"Fiona thought she made you feel unwelcome. She felt guilty all night."

"She felt guilty? For what?"

"Why are you always so cold-blooded, Angie?"

"Me? Cold-blooded?" I asked back.

"Whatever. I don't have time to argue with you," Hudson said, his voice dripping with frustration.

"I won't be coming home tonight. Fiona still has some things that need setting up."

"Up to you." I hung up.

A voice message from Albert popped up on my WhatsApp.

"Angie, have you thought about the offer?"

I opened the email reply box and typed: [I accept the offer.]