Not My Prince Charming

Seven years into our marriage, I went to the hospital as usual to bring Jason Gunn lunch.

But as I stood outside his office, I overheard his colleagues teasing him about a patient, calling her his girlfriend.

To my shock, Jason didn't deny it—he simply smiled and allowed it.

I placed the lunchbox down and turned to leave.

He rushed after me, angrily accusing me of being unreasonable.

"Zara is just a patient, someone who had surgery. She can't be stressed out. I'm a doctor! Can't you, as my wife, understand that?"

In the past, I would have exploded, causing a scene and making the entire hospital chaotic.

But now, I didn't care anymore.

When Jason Gunn got home, I was already lying in bed.

He had messaged me last night, saying he was at the hospital because of stomach pain, so I called him, but his phone was off.

I woke up early today to make him some soup and bring it to the hospital. If I hadn't seen him laughing and flirting with Zara Ferguson, I would've genuinely been concerned for him.

As he climbed into bed, the mattress dipped slightly under his weight. He wrapped his arms around my waist and whispered, "Honey, why didn't you wait for me to come to bed?"

If it were the old me, I would have wrapped my arms around his neck, eagerly responding to his subtle invitation. But now, I just wanted to get some sleep.

Seeing me stay silent, he took my left hand, gently stroking it.

"The soup was delicious. I drank it all. But be careful next time. I saw you burned your hands. Let me put some medicine on it," he spoke.

The cool ointment quickly spread through my palm. He kissed my left hand lightly and went to take a shower.

The sound of water started in the bathroom, and his phone, which had been lying on the coffee table, began to ring nonstop.

As a heart surgeon, Jason often got late-night calls from the hospital. Afraid of missing an urgent call, I picked up the phone.

Before I could speak, a soft voice came from the other end.

"Dr. Gunn, was dinner good? I learned a new recipe and will make you meatballs tomorrow."

Before I could respond, the phone was snatched away from me.

"I told you not to pick up my calls." Jason's voice was sharp.

His hand brushed against my burn, and the force was so strong it tore a layer of skin. Blood began to flow.

I gasped, clutching my hand. Jason, after telling the caller to call back later, grabbed my wrist roughly.

"You're an idiot. You can't even cook and still try to make soup. Now, look. You've burned yourself. Serves you right! Sit down! I'll treat the wound."

It was summer, and if the wound wasn't treated quickly, it could easily get infected.

I sat on the couch while Jason retrieved the first-aid kit from his study.