Chapter 2

Typically, Maxwell experiences heavy snowfall under the bright southern sun, while I endure endless spring during cold northern nights. We travel in opposite directions, seldom meeting—a situation we both silently accept.

The following morning, I had a dream about a ski resort. I was wearing a bright pink ski jacket that stood out against the white surroundings. Maxwell was nearby, criticizing me.

"Pink and delicate—how old are you now?" he remarked sharply, quoting a line from Downton Abbey.

The strangeness of it woke me up. I opened my eyes to find Maxwell standing by the bed, his expression cold and unyielding.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Didn't you promise to warm up the chicken soup this morning? Why are you still in bed? Get up!"

Before I could answer, he pulled the blanket off me, dragging me from the bed onto the chilly floor. The cold seeped through my bare feet, causing me to shiver.

A nightgown landed on my head, tossed carelessly in my direction. Without even looking at me, he turned and left.

I wrapped the robe tightly around myself, trying to ward off not just the cold, but the emptiness growing inside me.

In the kitchen, the chicken soup bubbled on the stove while I prepared breakfast at the counter.

Maxwell's breakfast never changed—iced Americano and a whole wheat bagel. I had hot mocha and taro-flavored European bread.

He only consumed the low-fat, low-sugar meals I made according to his strict specifications. To satisfy his particular tastes, I had spent hours studying online tutorials and even attended a baking class in person.

Despite my efforts, Maxwell never failed to criticize me. No matter how hard I tried, my attempts were always met with his disapproval.

I spent countless hours practicing until I finally perfected his favorite breads—bagels, muffins, ciabatta, baguettes, and even alkaline bread. Each one required patience and was baked in hopes of meeting his impossible standards.

That morning, I carefully poured the heated chicken soup into a thermos. A few drops of the scalding liquid splashed onto the back of my hand. I flinched at the sudden pain.

Hearing me, Maxwell scoffed. "You're getting more and more melodramatic. Just blow on it twice, and the burn will magically disappear," he mocked.

"Why are you being so stingy? Emily is just a child. What's wrong with giving her some chicken soup?"

He continued, "Every day, as soon as you wake up, you start acting pathetically. Who are you putting on this sad show for?"

I remained silent, pushing his breakfast towards him.

But when I added chocolate sauce to my hot mocha, it was like igniting a fuse.

"Grace, don't you understand what I've been telling you?" Maxwell erupted. "You're nearly overweight, and you still dare to consume chocolate sauce? Are you trying to ruin yourself?"

His voice grew more severe. "You drink high-calorie mocha every day. Why can't you just have iced Americano? Let's see—will you perish if you drink Americano instead?"

Before I could react, he grabbed my chin and forced the icy, bitter drink down my throat. The cold burned as it rushed down, and I coughed violently, struggling to breathe. The pain was as sharp as his words, my lungs aching as if they might give out.

Without another word, he picked up his briefcase in one hand and the thermos of chicken soup in the other, leaving me shaking and gasping for air.

Just yesterday, I had experienced a miscarriage. This morning, I hadn't eaten anything. And yet, here I was, forced to drink a full glass of iced Americano.

As soon as he left, the pain in my stomach intensified. My body began to shake uncontrollably, every nerve screaming. Drenched in sweat, I stumbled to the bathroom and swallowed an ibuprofen. Then I stood under a shower of 45°C water, hoping the warmth would ease the discomfort.

After thirty minutes and several hot packs, I finally managed to crawl into bed. I lay there for two hours, holding my stomach and staring at the ceiling.

I wanted to weep, but not a single tear fell.

The following morning, I received an email from Air New Zealand confirming my official job offer.

Without hesitation, I went to my current airline and handed in my resignation. I gave the paperwork to Miss Lara, the senior flight attendant.

"According to company policy," she began, "you need to provide at least 30 days' notice."