Chapter 9

Dad stubbed out his cigarette and patted my shoulder. "Yesterday, President Carter officially signed the contract with our company. The other firms we were introduced to have also signed on smoothly. The company has finally pulled through. Helen, you've worked hard." Yet there was no joy in his expression. No matter how much the Carter family helped, it was only because I was their daughter-in-law. The day I ceased to be one, all that support would vanish. "Helen, even though our family is relying on the Carters to get through this crisis..." Dad's voice grew quieter, "I just want you to be happy. If you're truly miserable there, I'd rather go bankrupt than see you suffer in front of others." Tears welled up in my eyes instantly. "Dad, don't talk nonsense," I said, wrapping my arms around him. "I'm fine with the Carters. I'll do my best to take care of my husband. Once he recovers, everything will be alright." Yes, as the young madam of the Carter family, I had to give something in return. Those thoughts of mutual destruction faded the moment I saw my parents. How could I bear to let my father's lifelong efforts go to waste? At least... not now. Back at the villa, I had the servants set up an extra table in the bedroom. Mary helped me move it in and took the chance to tidy up the room. "Young Madam, should I prepare an extra bedsheet for you? I noticed you've been washing them frequently these past couple of days." My heart nearly stopped. Normal people didn’t wash bedsheets every day! If this continued, the truth would come out sooner or later. "N-no, that's not necessary! I just haven’t been sleeping well lately, and the sheets felt a bit off, so I wanted them cleaned." I knew my excuse was flimsy, but I had no other choice. "Oh?" Mary didn’t seem suspicious and simply nodded. "Then I'll have them washed more thoroughly for you." "Thank you." I closed the door, trembling, and pressed a hand to my pounding chest. Tonight... I wouldn’t give that person another chance to get in! At dinner, as usual, I took the meal upstairs to feed Ethan. Gently shaking him awake, I whispered, "Time to eat." But he had little appetite, merely taking a sip of the soup before furrowing his brows and refusing another bite, shaking his head when I tried to feed him. "At least have a little more," I coaxed. "I made this crucian carp soup specially—it used to be your favorite." He shook his head again, his voice faint. "Not hungry. You have it. I'll eat later." Seeing that persuasion was useless, I silently took small sips from the bowl. The soup was rich and flavorful, yet there was a strange sourness to it—no wonder he didn’t want it. Frowning, I wondered if the kitchen had accidentally added too much vinegar. Just then, two sharp barks broke the silence as my mother-in-law’s toy poodle trotted in, wagging its tail and staring at me with dopey, expectant eyes. I smiled at my husband, teasing, "See? If you won’t eat, the dog’s here to steal your food." His expression brightened visibly—he clearly adored the little thing. Thinking quickly, I fished out a small piece of fish from the soup and placed it on the floor. "Here, Coco! Fish for you!" I teased the dog as it tilted its head in that adorably clueless way. It didn’t hesitate, trotting over to sniff the fish before happily wagging its tail and gobbling it up. I’ve never been fond of fish myself, so the soup didn’t appeal to me much. Seeing how eagerly the dog ate, I picked out the remaining pieces from my bowl and set them on the floor. It devoured them in seconds, then circled me, yapping and begging with playful barks.