Yet memories intruded unbidden. When the factory was just starting out, Justin had been desperate to go to New York to study new technology but had no funds.

I was the one who had scraped together every penny, borrowing from everyone I knew, just to give him that chance.

Back then, his eyes had been red with gratitude. "To have a wife like you... what more could a husband ask for?" His voice had trembled. "When the factory grows, I promise I'll take you to see the bustling streets of New York myself."

The factory grew. It became massive. He never mentioned that promise again.

Now, it didn't matter anymore.

Seven days passed in a blur.

I went to the school gate to pick up my son. From a distance, I spotted two figures standing out from the crowd. Brooklyn was preening in a fashionable coat bought in New York, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Justin.

As my son and I walked past, a neighbor pulled me aside, her voice lowered.

"Look over there. That's the director's wife everyone talks about. Isn't she pretty? She and the director are so well-matched."

People turned to look. If I stayed silent, I would look like the fool.

I offered a polite, detached smile. "Yes, they are quite well-matched."

Justin's expression darkened. He strode over and caught my wrist in a hard grip. "What did you just say?"

I calmly pried his fingers off my arm.

"Wasn't it you who said we shouldn't expose our relationship in public?"

He froze, stunned by my indifference. When he spoke again, his voice held genuine grievance.

"Ava, you didn't send a single letter in seven days. Before, if I was gone for even half a day, you couldn't wait to send three."

I pretended not to hear him. Just then, someone from the post station called out to me. An uncle and aunt from my hometown had mailed a package—half a bag of brown sugar.

My throat tightened. I knew how long they must have scrimped and saved to gather something so precious.

I accepted the package, clutching it protectively against my chest, and looked at Justin with wary eyes.

"Brown sugar is rare, but to a man like you, it's nothing. Don't even think about touching my sugar."

Disbelief flashed across his face, followed by a sting of pain.

"In your eyes," he asked, his voice low, "is that the kind of person I am?"

Memories from my past life clawed at me. I smiled bitterly—this wasn't paranoia. This was experience.