Chapter 4: Compromise and Adaptation After my conversation with Olivia in the hospital, I was discharged the following morning. Lucas came to pick me up personally, arriving precisely at ten o'clock, just as the doctor completed my final check. The hospital room was cluttered with things-fruit baskets and bouquets sent by friends and relatives, along with my toiletries and change of clothes. Lucas carefully packed everything up, one item at a time, and then went to handle the discharge paperwork. When we headed downstairs, he was carrying several bags, both big and small. The elevator was crowded. He stood beside me, his body slightly tilted, shielding me within his frame. Even in a moment like this, he remained composed-not a trace of disarray about him. His navy suit impeccably tailored, his dark hair perfectly styled, his expression carefully neutral. As we stepped out of the elevator, I sincerely said to him, "Thank you." Lucas turned his head slightly, glancing at me. "No need to be so formal. After all..." He paused there. Didn't continue. His gaze shifted past me, looking off in another direction. I followed his line of sight. And there I saw Phoebe Graham. She was dressed simply in jeans and a cream sweater, carrying a bag of medicine in her hand, supporting a middle-aged woman as they walked slowly toward the exit. I observed for a moment before noticing that the woman's left leg was slightly lame, her gait uneven and labored. I pulled my thoughts back and turned around, only to find that Lucas had already walked off. He moved quickly. I hurried to catch up, unsure if it was because I desperately wanted to talk to him or if I was genuinely curious. Somehow, as if possessed, I blurted out, "Aren't you going to check on her? I can get back on my own." At that, Lucas stopped abruptly. I bumped straight into his back, my injured arm pressing against him. I winced. He lowered his head, his expression cool and detached. "No need. Let's go." I nodded dazedly, and then I heard his voice again. Light, almost airy, yet carrying a hint of warning. "Autumn. I told you about what's between her and me because I didn't want any unnecessary complications. But if you think, because of that, you can meddle in our affairs... then you're mistaken." The hospital lobby buzzed with people coming and going. I quickly lowered my eyes. "Oh. Sorry, I spoke out of turn." From that day on, I never brought up Phoebe Graham on my own accord again. Neither did Lucas. But I knew he was always keeping an eye on her, though he was careful never to mention her name around me. My relationship with Lucas remained lukewarm at best. After the incident where I got hurt at my birthday party, he initially felt a twinge of guilt, but blamed me for being thoughtless. I somehow managed to wear away that sliver of guilt with a single foolish remark about checking on Phoebe at the hospital. It wasn't until two months later that things between us started to ease. Of course, that was also because of Phoebe Graham. Her mother-the middle-aged woman from that day at the hospital-had been in a car accident a few years ago, leaving her with impaired mobility. Every few months, she needed to go for a check-up. That rainy Thursday afternoon, while collecting laundry from the clothesline on her small patio, Mrs. Graham slipped and fell, hitting her head on the concrete. A neighbor happened to see it and rushed her to the hospital. As luck would have it, Lucas was in Boston at the time, tied up in meetings that would last the entire day. Phoebe couldn't get through to him on the phone. Desperate and with nowhere else to turn, she came to the Bailey Estate. That day, Margaret Bailey had just returned from an auction at Sotheby's where she'd acquired several pieces of vintage jewelry. She had specifically asked me to come over and pick out a couple for myself-another of her thinly veiled attempts to mold me into her ideal of a Bailey wife. I was in the grand sitting room, trying on a sapphire bracelet that felt too heavy on my wrist, when I heard a knock at the front door. For some reason, my eyelid twitched twice. I stopped the housekeeper who was about to answer it and went to open the door myself. When I opened it, I saw Phoebe Graham's pale, helpless face. Her blonde hair was damp from the rain, her normally proud posture slumped with worry. She looked at me, momentarily stunned, then pressed her lips together. "I'm looking for Lucas." I hadn't even had the chance to respond when William Bailey walked into the foyer, his voice commanding. "Autumn, who's there? I thought I heard someone asking for Lucas." I froze, locking eyes with Phoebe in front of me. William Bailey's disdain for people outside their social circle was legendary. If he discovered that this was the woman Lucas loved-a waitress from Bellini's-the consequences for both Lucas and Phoebe could be severe. I turned back, gave a faint smile, took Phoebe's arm, and pulled her inside. "William, it's my friend. She's here to see me." William gave us a long, meaningful look before finally nodding. His eyes, sharp despite his advanced age, missed nothing. "If you have something to attend to, go ahead. I'll have Simmons drive you." "That won't be necessary," I said smoothly. "We'll take my car." I said goodbye, then pulled Phoebe out of the Bailey Estate, practically dragging her across the manicured grounds to the six-car garage. I didn't ask the chauffeur to drive us. Instead, I picked the keys to Lucas's Audi from the rack in the garage office. Phoebe initially refused to get in. "Do you know where Lucas is?" she asked, standing stubbornly beside the passenger door. After I married Lucas, she had unilaterally cut off all contact with him. The last time they spoke was on my birthday, the day of the chandelier accident. And even then, it was through Lucas's assistant's phone. In a way, she truly was a proud and resilient girl. I rolled down the window, my expression cooling by a few degrees. "He's in Boston. Board meeting. He won't be back until late tonight." "I need to speak with him," she insisted, rain beginning to soak through her thin jacket. "If you've come looking for him, it must be urgent," I said, cutting her off. "Whatever he can do, I can do too. Get in, I'll help you." When she hesitated, I added, "If you don't, then forget it. I'm not standing in the rain all day." At that, Phoebe gave me a deep, searching look before finally getting into the passenger seat. She gave me the address of St. Vincent's Hospital across town. I didn't hesitate and drove straight there, navigating through the rainy streets with practiced ease. The emergency room was packed when we arrived. Phoebe explained the situation hastily-her mother had fallen, hit her head, and was now experiencing severe dizziness and confusion. The neighbor who brought her in had to leave for work, and they were waiting for a CT scan. I didn't know much about American healthcare, having grown up with private physicians, but I knew enough to understand that in an overcrowded ER, waiting times could stretch for hours. Once we located Mrs. Graham in a curtained-off section of the ER, I took charge. I helped with the paperwork, paid the fees upfront with my black card, and through a friend's connection-the same neurologist who had helped before-arranged for the best doctor in the hospital to see her immediately. "They're taking her up for surgery," Phoebe explained when she returned from speaking with the doctor. "They found a subdural hematoma-bleeding between her brain and skull. They need to drain it right away." I nodded, guiding her to the surgical waiting area. "I'll stay with you until they're done." "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice small and confused. I didn't have a good answer. Was it kindness? Pity? Some strange sense of solidarity with the woman my husband loved? Or was it simply that, despite everything, I couldn't bear to see someone suffering when I had the power to help? "Because it's the right thing to do," I said finally. We sat in silence for nearly an hour. I got us both coffee from the cafeteria and handed her tissues when silent tears started rolling down her cheeks. By the time I finished arranging for a private recovery room and returned to the waiting area outside the operating room, I saw Lucas. Across the hallway, the man looked travel-worn, his suit wrinkled from a hasty flight back from Boston. He was half-crouching in front of Phoebe, his hands on her shoulders as he comforted the woman who held his heart. He reached out, wiping her tears with his thumb, then took off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "I've got everything under control," he told her softly. Phoebe nodded, her eyes red and swollen. "Okay." Neither of them had noticed me yet. I stood frozen, watching their intimate moment, feeling like an intruder. The way Lucas looked at her-with such tenderness, such unguarded emotion-made my chest ache. In the months we'd been married, he had never once looked at me that way. I realized there was no longer a place for me here. Whatever comfort or help I could provide paled in comparison to what Lucas offered simply by being present. I left the hospital quietly, got into a taxi, and headed back to the penthouse. Once home, I opened Lucas's chat window and briefly explained what had happened-how I'd helped Phoebe get her mother into surgery, arranged for the private room, and paid the hospital fees. Then, I took a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the emotional exhaustion of the day. I kept checking my phone, waiting for his reply. At one in the morning, he finally responded. Just two lines. [Okay.] [Thanks.] I stared at the screen for a long moment. Two words. After everything I'd done, that's all he had to say. I set the phone down on my nightstand and turned off the light, lying in the darkness as rain continued to patter against the windows. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all-that I'd spent my day helping the woman my husband loved, only to receive the barest acknowledgment in return. It wasn't until the following evening that I saw Lucas again. I was in my pajamas, coming downstairs for a glass of water, when I bumped right into him in the hallway. His body stiffened for a moment. He glanced at me and, for a fleeting second, seemed stunned-whether by my disheveled appearance or something else, I couldn't tell. I didn't ask about Phoebe. But Lucas brought her up on his own. "Mrs. Graham's surgery went well," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "She's stable and should make a full recovery." After speaking, he lifted his gaze and added another sentence. "Phoebe asked me to explain to you that on your birthday, she didn't mean to cause any trouble. She didn't know it was the Bailey Estate when she accepted the catering job." I was a bit surprised. I looked at Lucas, trying to decipher what was behind this sudden communication. After a brief pause, I nodded. "Alright, I understand." From that day on, thanks to Phoebe Graham, Lucas and I somehow grew much closer. The next time I visited the Bailey Estate, Lucas would actively serve me food, take walks with me around the gardens, and occasionally, when he lowered his head to speak to me, there was even a hint of tenderness in his tone. After graduation, I had partnered with Victoria to start Shepherd Design Studio, and it was doing fairly well. I was quite busy every day, my schedule almost perfectly aligned with Lucas's. As time went on, he began picking me up and dropping me off at work, preparing breakfast for me on weekends, and even asking if there was anything I wanted when he went on business trips. Whatever I mentioned, he would buy-a cashmere scarf from Milan, first-edition books from London, artisanal chocolates from Belgium. Phoebe had made it crystal clear with a written IOU for the surgery fees, refusing to owe Lucas even a penny. The reason it was considered a debt to Lucas was that, not long after that day, he handed me a black card, saying it contained my living expenses as well as the surgery fees I had paid for Phoebe's mother. "You shouldn't have had to use your own money," he'd said, sliding the card across the breakfast table one morning. I'd stared at it, feeling strangely insulted. "I don't need to be reimbursed for helping someone." "I know," he'd replied, his eyes softer than usual. "But I want to. Please." So I'd taken the card, not because I needed the money, but because it seemed important to him that I did. Our marriage continued in this strange, tentative dance-two people circling each other, gradually drawing closer while maintaining a careful distance. I still remembered our agreement, the two-year timeline that hung over us like a silent countdown. But sometimes, in quiet moments when Lucas would smile at something I said or reach out to brush a strand of hair from my face, I allowed myself to wonder if perhaps things might change. If perhaps, when the two years were up, he might not want to let me go after all. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, memories of high school floated through my mind-memories of a time when Lucas Bailey had carried me to the infirmary, when he had put me before everything else, even his championship basketball game. I wondered if somewhere deep inside him, those memories still existed too.