"Lora, there’s a new business at the company, and I need to leave on a trip for a few days."
With that, he hurried out, the corners of his eyes twitching.
I thought back to the countless nights he had rushed out with the excuse of urgent work or the frequent business trips that followed.
Just then, my aunt’s message came through. I opened it, "Lora, your uncle has submitted your immigration application. See you next week!"
Patrick returned exactly a week later. I assumed he would head straight to the office, but to my surprise, he rushed home during the morning rush hour.
Over the past few days, Christy’s social media updates have been relentless. In her latest post, she posed in a white gauzy nightgown, managing to look both innocent and seductive.
Her caption read, "Uncle praised my new battle outfit and said he’d tear it off with his own hands!"
I chuckled coldly and left a casual comment, "It’s his favorite style."
Shortly after, the post vanished.
The moment Patrick walked through the door, he began to reprimand me. "Lora, I already explained what happened last time! Christy is just an 18-year-old girl. Why are you always targeting her?"
I froze for a moment, quickly realizing it must be because of the deleted post.
Sure enough, Patrick caught my expression and grew even more irritated.
"She only said she was fortunate to have a good boss, and you insulted her with such nasty words!"
"Lora, you’re 30 years old. How can you stop bullying a young girl?"
I pressed my lips together, choosing not to argue, letting Christy’s lies poison his mind.
In three days, I’ll be gone. His opinions no longer matter to me.
Seeing that I didn’t defend myself like I used to, Patrick hesitated, guilt flashing across his face as he softened his tone.
“Lora, you were always the most reasonable person before. Why have you been acting so childish lately? Is it because you haven’t been feeling well?”
He placed the food container on the dining table and carefully ladled out a bowl of hot porridge.
“This is stomach-nourishing porridge from the old house. I asked the kitchen to prepare it for you every day since you’ve been unwell. Tomorrow morning, I’ll go back and bring you another portion.”
He scooped up a spoonful and brought it to my lips.
“Every time you’re sick, I wish I could take the pain for you,” he murmured.
I frowned, keeping my mouth closed, refusing to accept the gesture.