No Longer Your Shadow

After kneeling in the snow for so long, I blacked out after only taking a few steps.

When I came to, the white ceiling and Thomas' face came into view.

He'd returned to his usual, stern composure. With a cold expression, he set a steaming bowl of tomato soup on the bedside table. "Have you learned your lesson?"

I stayed silent and kept my head down, refusing to meet his eyes.

My knees still ached, and after three whole hours of being out in the cold, my throat hurt so badly I could hardly speak.

Thomas remained unbothered as he stirred the hot soup idly.

"In the Torres household, mistakes come with consequences. That's the rules, and there are no exceptions."

Rules. That was the word he said most to me ever since I arrived at this place.

Thomas had always been a stickler for rules. Whether at the company or at home, everything had to be perfect. And the thing he feared and hated most was accidents.

Gwendolyn's death had been exactly that. After the car accident, Thomas fell into depression for a long time. Even now, he still hadn't completely moved past it. And to him, what happened between us was an accident as well.

He had refused to acknowledge our relationship publicly after what happened that night. It was only after I begged him that he let me stay in the villa as his wife.

But that title existed in name only. We never registered our marriage, let alone had a wedding. I was more of a helper around the house than a spouse.

At home, he was always cold and distant toward me.

Only in the dead of night, when he needed to satisfy his desires, would he come into my room and hold me forcibly.

Though he would kiss me over and over again and whisper how much he loved me repeatedly, I knew the person he loved was never me.

He was merely seeing my sister in me, the woman I resembled.

When he noticed my silence, his breathing grew heavier. His Adam's apple bobbed as he reluctantly spoke.

"I made this soup myself. Consider it an apology. I was a bit impulsive earlier today."

After a pause, he added, "You know I never go into the kitchen."

Staring at the soup on the bedside table, I suddenly felt like laughing.

Was this his idea of an apology?

He didn't even say sorry. All he did was make a bowl of soup, and yet he was acting like he had done me the greatest favor.

Just as I was about to make a sarcastic remark, a gentle voice came from outside. "Honey, could you come here for a sec?"

When Thomas heard that, he stood up immediately and walked out. As he was leaving, he added, "Make sure you drink it while it's hot. It won't taste as good once it's cold."

The door clicked shut, and I was left by myself.

Picking up the bowl of tomato soup, I gently stirred it with the spoon, only to notice large and tiny chunks of onion floating inside.

Some pieces were cut all jagged, and some still had bits of skin left on. It was obvious the person who made this soup had never handled food ingredients before.

Yet, even after five years of living together, Thomas still couldn't remember that I hated onions.