Three months into our silent war, I still shared a bed with Roger Miller—enduring excruciating back pain while letting him take whatever he wanted.

By morning, I could barely stand.

Still, I made him breakfast, pretending nothing was wrong.

He refused to look at me. I stepped in front of the door, blocking his way.

"Roger, how much longer are you going to treat me like this?"

He stared at me with a hatred that could kill.

"Move, murderer."

When the door slammed shut, the pain finally crushed me. I fell to the floor and stayed there, numb, until I could crawl to my feet again.

Later, I knelt before my mother's grave, my tears soaking into the flowers I'd brought.

"Mom, Roger says I killed you. Do you blame me too?"

"Mom, I don't love Roger anymore. He hurts me."

"Mom, I miss you..."

***

At Roger's office with homemade stomach-friendly meals, the new receptionist barred my entry.

No surprise—Roger had authorized this.

"Miss Williams, you deliver meals daily, but Mr. Miller always has me trash them. Please take these back. Don't make extra work for me."

I'd hired this receptionist three months ago. Our cold war began soon after she started.

Anna Toman—young, beautiful, Ivy League—coveting my position was understandable.

I spared her arguments and left the food.

As she moved to bin the lunchbox, Roger's secretary stopped her with a warning glance, then gestured me inside.

Anna muttered behind me, "Who does she think she is? Someday, you'll call me Mrs. Miller with respect."

Roger ignored me for hours, untouched lunch before him. My back throbbed.

Just as I broke the silence, Anna knocked and entered. She'd removed her jacket, revealing a spaghetti-strap dress.

After a dismissive glance at me, she beamed at Roger. "You wanted me, Mr. Miller?"

Roger nodded approvingly. "You look great in that dress."

Then he turned to me. "Laura Williams, Anna will attend next week's gala with me. Brief her on etiquette."

"I'll email you the guidelines tonight."

When I stayed silent, Anna shot Roger a pitiful, tearful look.

I strode from his office, biting my lip to hold back tears until I cleared the building.

Employees greeted me along the way, though whispers trailed behind.

"Are the boss and his wife divorcing? Anna's practically salivating."

"Hush. Better cozy up to her—she might be the next Mrs. Miller. Remember how she held a grudge after you made her load boxes?"

Post-physiotherapy, the doctor warned against prolonged sitting, standing, or lifting—or I'd face severe spinal damage young.

Outside the hospital, Brian Carter spotted me from afar.

He jogged over, grinning. "Laura! Are you... unwell?"

Brian's bright smile vanished the moment he saw the medicine in my hand, his brow furrowing instantly.

I gave a faint smile. "Just a minor illness."

Brian insisted on walking me home. I meant to refuse, but faced with those pleading puppy-dog eyes of his, shimmering like they'd been doused in water, I couldn't bring myself to be cruel.

He stubbornly insisted on helping me upstairs. Just as we were locked in this awkward tug-of-war, Roger grabbed my hand.

"Thanks for bringing my wife home, kid. Now scram."

Brian withdrew his hand, defeated, and bid me farewell.

Roger's grip was iron-tight, crushing my hand painfully. He strode forward so fast he practically dragged me along.

He threw me onto the sofa and kissed me without warning—domineering, savage, devoid of any tenderness. I pushed against him.

He sneered, "Playing coy now? Weren't you begging me to have you last night? Or," his voice turned venomous, "would you rather have that guy downstairs kiss you?"

"Roger, you bastard!"

My palm connected sharply with his cheek.

Roger worked his jaw where I'd struck him. "Laura, who's the real bastard here? Taking my mother behind my back to... to end it? You've got some nerve!"

The mention of Mom made the ache in my heart instantly eclipse the physical pain. Tears poured like a broken dam.

"She was my mother too!"

Roger's eyes were bloodshot. "Bullshit! You're nothing but a murderer! I'll never forgive you. Not ever."

My voice choked, "Roger, let's get divorced. I can't keep torturing each other like this."

"Laura," he leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, "thinking you can run from me and escape your guilt? Over my dead body."

Roger started resenting me three months ago.

I took my mother with terminal pancreatic cancer to Switzerland. A week later, I brought her ashes back and buried them under the orange tree behind the orphanage.

After patting down the last mound of earth, I sat in the orphanage for a long while before calling Roger.

He went mad, grabbing a shovel to dig her up.

I threw all my strength into stopping him. "Roger! This was Mom's last wish! Do you want her spirit restless?"

He froze, eyes bloodshot, his fine suit smeared with brown dirt before stumbling away hollow-eyed.

The grave in the cemetery was a Memorial Monument we built later.

"Tomb of Honored Deceased Mother Brenda Allen"

Brenda was Roger's mother, my mother, and every orphan's mother.

When I arrived at the orphanage, only seven children were there. I was the youngest. Roger had lived there longest and was closest to Mom.

I never spoke at first, rarely playing with others. Having been sold by traffickers multiple times, I was terrified of beatings.

Mom tirelessly taught me words, even letting me sleep beside her.

Too scared to sleep for fear of being sold again, she'd cradle me tightly each night, whispering gently, "Don't be afraid, little Laura. Mom chased the bad people away. Sleep now."

Back then, Roger shone like a little sun, warming everyone around him. Besides Mom, he cared for me most.

Roger vowed to earn lots of money for Mom and me when he grew up. He kept that promise.

But barely six months after retirement, Mom was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer.

A proud woman, she couldn't bear becoming bedridden. One day when Roger was out, she begged me.

"Laura, Mom wants release. Don't tell Roger. Our secret."

Clutching her papery hand, I nodded through tears.

Since then, though sharing a roof, Roger and I became strangers.

No matter how I explained, he met me with ice. I even offered to let him hit me, but he remained unmoved.

"Roger, come sleep in the master bedroom tonight?"

He didn't even look up. "Get out."

As I turned away dejected, his voice cut cold.

"Laura, stay out of my sight. It only makes me hate you more."

"Alright. Understood."

The day Roger took Anna to the banquet, I chose to work overtime at the office.

Suddenly, a blue back support appeared on the window. Those hands swayed left and right as if announcing, "The Lord of Back Support has arrived! Bow before me!"

Brian's clean, handsome face popped into view. He puckered his lips, signaling me to open the door.

"Laura, look what I got you!"

"Ta-dah!"

"Just to be clear, I'm not sucking up to the boss. But seeing you so uncomfortable without proper back support, I took matters into my own hands."

I'd never told Brian I liked blue.

"Was it that hard to guess? Your phone case, your pillow, your clothes and shoes—all blue. Even your..."

I smiled watching him ramble with intense seriousness, mirroring the boy from my memories.

Roger's orphanage nickname was Loudspeaker for his nonstop chatter.

When we sneaked to the back hill to pick unripe oranges, everyone crept around—except him, standing tall.

"Fear not! I am the Orange Tree Deity. These trees shall yield their fruit to you!"

His booming voice got us caught, forcing us to wash dishes for the whole class.

Mom planted her hands on her hips, feigning anger. "These oranges were grown for you all! But some greedy kittens insist on stealing everyone's share before they're ripe. That's wrong! So... you'll wash every child's plate today."

Though framed as punishment, Mom always rewashed the poorly cleaned dishes.

I accepted the back support. "Thanks, Brian. Let me treat you to dinner—fair's fair."

Brian wore a triumphant grin as he shut down my computer and cleared my desk in one fluid motion.

"Let's go! Who volunteers for weekend overtime anyway?"

I took Brian to the restaurant Roger and I frequented, only to find Roger hosting a staff dinner there.

Seated at the head table, Roger slammed his wine glass upon seeing us. Crimson liquid mixed with shards splashed onto his pale fingers. Anna anxiously grasped his hand, dabbing the stain with her sleeve.

Brian frowned. "Laura, maybe another place?"

I knew Roger meant to provoke me, but I'm no saint—jealousy stung.

"No need. We'll stay."

Brian piled food onto my plate, and I didn't refuse. "You eat too."

He eagerly pushed a plate of shelled shrimp toward me. Embarrassed, I took his bowl and served him some in return.

Two shrimp dropped while transferring. As I bent to retrieve them, Brian shielded the table corner. Sure enough, I bumped his hand rising.

He chuckled. "Called it."

Roger witnessed the exchange. Abruptly standing, he announced, "Enjoy your meal. Bill it to me," before striding out.

Then his text arrived.

"Come out. I'm waiting by the entrance."

The memory of his fingers intertwined with Anna's still made my blood boil.

I pretended not to see, and forty minutes later, Brian and I walked out of the restaurant.

The Bentley parked across the street was impossible to miss. I bid Brian farewell and crossed over to Roger's car.

The moment I slid inside, Roger grabbed my neck and kissed me. His grip was forceful, the kiss pure dominance and conquest.

Still kissing me, he rolled down the window, locking eyes with Brian in open challenge.

Brian turned away, but Roger showed no sign of stopping. Knowing him, a few more seconds and he'd lose control.

He buckled my seatbelt, started the car, and drove to a secluded spot. Flipping down the back seats, he threw me onto them with rough insistence.

Since our cold war began, this was the only time he sought closeness. He always lost himself in these moments.

Even when my back felt like breaking, I endured it. But it never mended things—only made him crueler. So I instinctively tried to escape.

A sharp click sealed the doors.

Roger pinned me down. I turned my face away, but he gripped my jaw and forced it back.

"Who was that man? Why were you alone with him?"

"Speak, Laura."

I stared at him, tears streaming into my hair. This Roger felt utterly alien.

Back when I couldn't use fork and knife, I ate with my hands. The other kids avoided me, terrified. Soon, I stopped going to the cafeteria.

After lights-out, Roger would secretly wake me and sneak us inside.

He'd slide a saved meal toward me. "Eat up, little mute!"

When I hesitated, he ate first. Watching him, I couldn't help grabbing handfuls too.

Only after I'd eaten would he pull out fork and knife, guiding my hands patiently. If I fumbled, he never snapped. "I'll teach you tomorrow. Sleep now—I'll clean up."

Roger brushed away my tears now, tasting them on his lips. "Save those tears, good girl. It's not time to cry yet."

He mistook my grief for weakness—this was just revenge.

He drove me home and left without even stepping inside.

I swallowed two painkillers and sat on the sofa, staring blankly at our wedding portrait.

Roger and I truly witnessed each other at our lowest points.

Roger's entrepreneurial journey was tough. Especially for orphans like us—no capital, no connections, no background. Just our brains and muscle.

That's how my back problems started.

Roger had business smarts and guts, but no seed money. So he found a brutally simple cash job—hauling cement bags.

I went with him to the interview. The contractor eyed Roger's slight build. "My site pays less than others—eight bucks per hundred-pound bag. Cement's unlimited though. Straight talk: I've seen your type before. None lasted a week. Quit? Give me two days' notice for replacement."

Roger nodded eagerly. "Don't worry, boss! I'm tough and strong!"

The contractor put me to work labeling water bottles with his wife—eighty bucks daily.

Crammed in that tiny workshop, I hunched for ten-hour shifts. Year after year, my spine gave out.

Roger started with a hundred bags daily. Later, he stopped me from working and hauled two hundred himself. Sometimes ran delivery gigs too. Coworkers called him money-crazed.

Only I knew—he was killing himself to give me a better life sooner.

When things improved, my back pain vanished. Until I got Mom's ashes.

I canceled my direct Switzerland-China flight. Flew Switzerland→Kazakhstan→took a forty-hour train to New York. My back injury flared afterward.

Still, I wanted to show her around.

Mom lived fifty-plus years. Forty spent on orphanage kids. Never attended college, yet raised dozens of graduates.

We soared on her shoulders while she never left that orphanage.

I took her tiny self to Lake Geneva—saw snow peaks and glaciers.

On the train, I'd point, "Mom, your favorite Statue of Liberty's here."

Placed her on the table, lifted my trembling camera.

"Smile, Mom."

Tears smeared the screen into blurry shapes.

Anna somehow got my phone number and sent me a selfie of hers.

In the picture, she was wearing the trendy innocent-sexy makeup, but what she really wanted me to see was the suit draped over her arm.

How could I not recognize it? I personally picked out every suit of Roger's.

My friend Michelle Lee snatched my phone. "What does this bitch want?"

She suddenly paused, looked at me, then at the phone, and finally held the phone next to my face to compare.

"What the hell, is Roger trying to pull some substitute story?"

I took the phone and looked at the girl in the picture again.

Anna herself doesn't look like me; at best, we're the same type. But with this makeup, she looks somewhat similar.

Michelle put her hands on her hips. "Laura, I'm telling you, if it's not working, just divorce him! What is he trying to do? He's been giving you the cold shoulder for months. Roger, I wish we had beaten him to death back in the orphanage!"

Michelle was the top fighter in the orphanage.

She came a year after me. Her fiery personality didn't win her any friends among the girls, and her quickness to fight meant the boys avoided her too.

I thought she'd be sad, but she seemed completely unaffected. She ate, slept, and played marbles by herself, enjoying it.

One day, the boys invited her to play chess, and Michelle beat them all.

One boy wasn't convinced and said, "Tomboy, you must have cheated."

Michelle didn't put up with it. She pinned the boy down and punched him, covering his mouth. "Apologize!"

Roger came to break it up. As he left, he told the boys, "Don't play with Michelle anymore..."

His next words were, "I'll have Laura take Michelle to play with the girls, so there won't be any more fights."

But before he could say it, Michelle had already leaped and pinned Roger to the ground.

At this point, we both laughed. Michelle scratched her head sheepishly. "That was childhood stuff, don't bring it up, Laura."

Michelle stayed and talked with me for a long time. I knew she was afraid I'd be sad when alone.

I don't know if Roger really likes Anna, but I heard he made an exception to promote her to the executive office.

He took her to various cocktail parties. I heard that last week at a party, someone saw her from behind and mistook her for me.

"Laura, hello, I'm..." Anna turned around, and the person realized they had mistaken her.

"Sorry, I saw you with Roger and thought you were Laura."

Anna looked a bit surprised. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

"Laura, if Laura can be it, I, Anna, can be it too."

Suddenly, a liquid with a metallic sweetness slid to the corner of my mouth, then a few drops fell onto my thigh, staining my jeans red.

I calmly wiped away the nosebleed.

Lately, it seems... it's becoming more frequent.

Roger and I hadn't seen each other for nearly half a month.

I was surprised to find him home when I returned.

"Dinner here tonight?"

"Yeah."

"I'll make Herbed Carrot Consommé then."

"You don't get to cook that dish."

Mom was wonderful at everything except cooking, so hiring chefs became a significant expense for the orphanage.

Herbed Carrot Consommé was Mom's signature dish. About six months after I arrived at the orphanage, finances improved. Before that, we often had this soup.

The later chef once remarked, "I've never seen anyone make soup with just carrots."

Mom would smile sheepishly. "Lawrence, please don't tease me. I can fix pipes and patch roofs, but cooking's beyond me."

When we finally had meat broth, we strangely missed Mom's carrot soup.

I ended up stir-frying two random dishes with what we had. Roger spat it out the moment it touched his tongue.

"Laura, are you messing with me?"

Confused, I asked, "What's wrong?"

He grabbed my hand across the table, squeezing painfully.

"You seem unhappy I'm home tonight. Is this your way of driving me out?"

"We've been in this cold war so long. Can't you swallow your pride and just comfort me?!"

I remembered when Roger hauled cement. To work more, we rented a ten-square-meter room near the construction site.

Though covered in dust, he'd return scrubbed clean, always bringing me a rose.

I'd sniff it and say, "Roger, I don't want to label water bottles anymore."

"Good. I never liked you doing it. Sticking labels all day is as exhausting as hauling cement. It hurts me to see you strain."

I jumped into his arms. "Roger, why are you so good to me? You've spoiled me rotten. You'll have to pamper me forever now."

He patted my hip, nuzzling my nose. "I'll pamper you all my life, Laura."

Roger's voice snapped me back to reality, leaving me speechless.

He answered his phone. Anna's soft, delicate voice carried through.

"Roger, there are footsteps outside my door. I'm so scared. Can you come stay with me?"

He watched me, waiting for my reaction. I stared blankly, silent.

"Alright, wait for me."

Roger slammed the door as he left.

I picked up my fork and knife, putting cold food in my mouth. "Tastes fine..."

Tears streamed down my face as I chewed.

"Laura, it's just a birthday—forget it if he forgot," I told myself.

This was my first birthday without Roger since I met him.

I finished the food through tears and went to bed early. I hoped to dream of Roger pulling out a cake from behind like before to celebrate with me.

Just before drifting off, Brian's call jolted me awake.

"Laura, could you come to the office? I need help sending a document before signing this contract on my business trip."

"Okay."

Pushing open the office door, I was greeted by loud poppers exploding by my ears. Colleagues, Brian, and Michelle were all there.

"Happy birthday, Laura!"

Michelle crushed me in a fierce hug. "Laura, happy birthday."

Brian opened his arms wide. "Laura, I drove back overnight from my trip just to make it before midnight. A hug isn't too much to ask, is it?"

He gave me those pleading eyes of his—utterly impossible to resist.

As they sang "Happy Birthday," I recorded it on my phone, wishing I could freeze this moment forever.

After blowing out the candles, they smeared cake all over my face. I shared the rest, saving the biggest slice for Michelle.

While searching for her in the crowd, she suddenly hugged me tight and burst into tears.

"Laura, you big dummy!"

Brian spotted the test results in Michelle's hand. "Late-stage brain cancer" glared from the bottom left corner.

Stunned, I could only rub Michelle's back, speechless.

The office's joyful noise died instantly, leaving only the sound of my own heartbeat. Then came sniffles and muffled sobs—once one person cried, everyone else broke down too.

Panicking, I tried to reassure them. "Don't cry! I'm fine right now, aren't I?"

Brian and Michelle insisted on taking me for another hospital check. But when we got the report, silence swallowed us on the drive back.

I refused Michelle's offer to take leave for me. She couldn't win that argument.

Brian kept turning away to wipe his eyes. Trying to lighten the mood, I teased, "Never realized it before—calling you 'Brian' feels too casual now. Should I address you as Young Master Brian?"

His daily commute car was a Volkswagen. Spotting that Porsche last night told me he was just slumming it for fun.

Voice thick, he asked, "Laura, anywhere you'd want to go?"

"Me?"

"Too many places—Pennsylvania, New York, Washington, Wyoming... I want to see them all."

"Would you let me come with you?"

Roger's first pot of gold from his startup was thirty-eight thousand dollars, and he immediately moved us to a 40-square-meter apartment.

We hunted for furniture at a second-hand market, turning the rental into a cozy nest just for us in this city.

Lying on the carpeted living room floor, Roger grabbed my hand and kissed it.

"Laura, when I make more money, let's travel across the country, okay?"

"Truth is, I want to take you around the world, but I don't know what that costs. Let's start small: Pennsylvania, New York, Washington, Wyoming... anywhere you want, yeah?"

"Okay."

Brian, worried I'd refuse, rushed to reassure me. "Now that you know, I won't hide it—I'm loaded. Every expense for our trip? Mr. Carter's got it covered!"

When he dropped me off downstairs, Brian was still animatedly mapping it out. "First, we'll—"

I spotted Roger smoking in the shadows from afar. He flicked his cigarette and strode toward Brian and me.

"Ms. Williams, isn't it improper for a married woman to stroll alone with a man this late?"

Brian stepped between us. "Roger, a filthy mind sees filth everywhere. I admit I'm into your wife, but she feels nothing for me—we've always kept it clean. Besides, you're the married one cozying up to other women. What right do you have to judge her? If your spot opens up, pal, I'll leap in faster than light."

In all my years knowing Brian, he'd always been gentle. This sharpness was new.

Their standoff felt like 17-year-old Roger facing his 27-year-old self through a time rift. Would the younger Roger have defended me like this too?

Roger flashed a triumphant grin, brandishing his wedding ring.

"Too bad—you'll never get that chance." Then he dragged me away.

The moment we entered the building, Roger pinned me against the wall like a madman, his scorching lips claiming every inch of exposed skin. Only then did I catch the whiskey reek on him.

I murmured softly, "Don't drink—your stomach can't handle it."

He growled like a beast in my ear, "Laura! Why? Why care if I ate or drank, but not about Anna? She bombarded you with those photos to provoke you—why aren't you jealous?"

"Are you made of wood? Say something!"

"Because I don't love you anymore."