Done Chasing the Cold-Hearted Commander

After suffering from a miscarriage, I've gotten rid of all the habits that my military husband, Nathan Linwood, despises.

No longer do I ask him about his whereabouts. He can spend the night elsewhere for all I care.

When I get hurt in a rescue mission, the doctor tells me to inform my family about my condition. I merely shake my head and say, "I don't have any family."

But Nathan still arrives at the scene half an hour later.

The tall and broad-shouldered man looks at me, his voice extremely cold.

"Why didn't you seek me out when you got hurt?"

I lower my gaze. "It's just a minor injury. There's no need to trouble you at all, Commander Linwood."

For some reason, my nonchalant tone annoys Nathan. He's about to open his mouth when a conversation between the guards floats into our ears.

"Commander Linwood sure is concerned about Ms. Schuman. When she twisted her ankle during a performance, Commander Linwood had a helicopter rerouted to the venue immediately. He even carried her into and out of the helicopter, refusing to let her feet touch the ground at all."

Nathan's expression shifts into one of nervousness immediately. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, seemingly waiting for me to demand answers from him or kick up a fuss like usual.

But my eyelashes barely flutter at the conversation. All I do is close my eyes and rest.

Ten days later, I won't have anything to do with everything that's going on here.

After I climbed into Nathan Linwood's car, he explained slowly, "Those people are just spouting nonsense. I'm on official business. I invited Veron to perform for the troops, so of course, I have to take care of her now that she's injured."

I hummed in response and fell silent.

He abruptly snapped, "Do you not believe me? Are you still mad at me? Viv… I'm focusing on our family now. What more do you want from me?"

I looked out the window and, without sparing him a glance, responded, "I believe you. I thought I was fine, so I didn't bother you. Let's head back."

My reply was as perfunctory as an automated response, prompting Nathan to slam his fist onto the steering wheel. The shrill blare of the horn shattered the silence, startling the performers who had just finished their show across the street.

One of the women lifted her head and looked over. In the freezing night, she wore only a thin performance costume, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, the tip of her nose flushed red from the cold. The moment the moonlight illuminated her face, the air inside the car instantly froze.

It was Veronica Schuman.

Nathan instinctively looked at me. After all, every time I had seen her in the past, I would lose control of my emotions. This time, however, I merely cast an indifferent glance her way, withdrew my gaze, and remained completely unbothered.

Nathan tightened