Blurb：
In the dimly lit living room, Chaim Lincoln confronts Wendy Sutton with a cold proposal: an open marriage that would force her to accept his affair with Mandy. But Wendy remembers everything—the mountain rescue three years ago, the viper bite, the scar on her hand from carrying him to safety. When Chaim storms out, Wendy makes a call to Mr. Clark of the Cure Agency, cutting off herb supplies to the Lincoln and Lewis families. As Chaim mocks her in the study, calling her "just a poor guy from the mountains," Wendy’s quiet revenge begins. This emotional thriller explores betrayal, power, and the scars that never heal.
Content：
The living room light was half on.Warm yellow light spilled onto the floor, sketching a blurred dividing line.
On one side of the line was the sofa where I sat; on the other was the empty carpet.
When Chaim Lincoln pushed open the door, the sound of his leather shoes on the floor echoed loudly.
As if purposely shattering the quiet, half-lit stillness.
He didn't take off his coat; the cold clung to his black suit from outside.
He sat down directly in the single armchair opposite the sofa, the cushion pressed into a shallow dent.
The cup on the coffee table was still steaming—it had been brewed by me just ten minutes ago.
Water droplets clung to the inside of the glass, slowly sliding down its side.
He stared at the hand resting on my knee, his gaze as cold as ice.
Suddenly, he spoke, his voice was so cold, "Wendy Sutton, let's sign an agreement."
My fingers gripping the cup handle paused for a moment, the warm water transmitting through the glass to my fingertips.
He said again, "open marriage."
Those words were like small stones thrown into an icy lake, cracking delicate fissures.
I said nothing, only slid the cup a little closer to myself.
Just wait for him to completely tear off the fig leaf.
"Don't worry about me and Mandy," he leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee.
"You're still Mrs Lincoln; I won't shortchange you, nor will I let you suffer any injustice."
The meaning couldn't be any clearer.
He wants me to accept him sharing a husband with Mandy and pretend I don't care at all.
My right hand curled instinctively, the scar at the webbing tightening faintly.
The scene from three years ago in the mountains suddenly flooded into my mind.
The rain had just stopped that day, and the mountain path was slippery and steep.
He was bitten on the leg by a sharp-nosed viper. With rapid spread of the venom, his calf swelled, shining painfully.
The sky darkened rapidly, with only insect chirps and the wind around—there was no way to find the path.
I crouched down and let him lie across my back.
He was half a head taller than me, his weight pressing down on my shoulders which caused severe pain to me.
I carried him running for three hours before we finally reached the nearest clinic at the foot of the mountain.
Along the way, a rock at the cliff's edge scratched me—from the web between my thumb and index finger down to my wrist—cutting a two-finger-wide gash.
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The End