Chapter 3

While the shower ran intermittently, I quickly got dressed. To avoid any accidental reveals, I chose the most conservative athleisure wear I could find. When Jameson emerged from the bathroom, my face betrayed me again, heating up at the sight of him. He had nothing on but a loosely tied white towel hanging around his hips. Water dripped down his sharply cut jawline, trickling over his chest and sliding along the deep grooves of his abs. I stared, mesmerized, until Jameson's contemptuous laugh snapped me out of it. As I turned away in embarrassment, I felt his warmth behind me as he breathed against my ear. "Now that you're back, behave yourself," Jameson whispered in a tone like someone speaking to a child. My heart skipped a beat, and my body honestly reacted to his presence. I moved away from him and tried to keep my voice cold as I said, "Jameson, I have amnesia…" Jameson scoffed as he wrapped his arms around my waist, slowly tracing my thin waistline. He sounded tired as he said, "Wynonna, aren't you sick of these games? I said stop it." Anger surged through me, and I found the strength to push him away. "Games? I fell from the second floor and spent three days in the hospital. You never visited once!" Jameson watched me calmly. "Yes, and?" His response was exasperating. Even if my past self had been insufferable, I had at least saved his company. That alone should have been enough to make him check on me. Instead, Jameson remained perfectly composed, treating me like some emotional wreck. Looking at his impossibly handsome face, I felt nauseous for the first time. I waved dismissively. "Never mind. Jameson, I want a divorce." Jameson actually laughed. "Wynonna, you're still at it? I've told you before—we're not getting divorced. And stop being jealous of Xandra; you could never compare to her." I felt sick and frowned in disgust. "Jameson, are you deaf? I have amnesia. I don't love you anymore. I want a divorce." I added, "Also, I don't remember Xandra, so this isn't about her." Jameson's face turned livid. He grabbed my wrist and pinned me against the wall. I immediately winced in pain, my eyes welling up. He pressed close, his hot breath on my face, and my cheeks flushed again as his muscular body held me in place. The fresh, woody scent of his shampoo and his masculine scent overwhelmed me. My body betrayed me again, trembling as my knees weakened. For a moment, I even wanted to kiss his perfect lips. Jameson smiled again, gently nibbling my earlobe until I shuddered like I had been electrified. "Wynonna, don't think this act will upset me. You don't remember Xandra? If so, why have you spent the last two years cursing her name? Doesn't that show how much you care about her?" "Jameson, let go! You're shameless!" I gritted my teeth. He playfully nipped my earlobe. "Why are you wearing these clothes? What happened to your collection of outfits? I remember how you used to love putting on something new after my shower, trying to seduce me like those actresses on TV." His breathing grew heavier. "It's been three days, Wyn…" My scalp tingled, and my mouth went dry. Though I wore the body of a 26-year-old, my mind was still 18. Moreover, I had no idea that despite having such a complicated relationship with Jameson, I was still so open with him in the bedroom. The thought of me possibly initiating all that drove me crazy, and I shoved him hard. It caught him off guard and almost made him fall. His eyes darkened instantly. "Wynonna, did you just push me? What's wrong with you?" I couldn't stand talking to him for another second, so I quickly opened the door. "I'm going downstairs for dinner. Do whatever you want." … The dining table was set with an elaborate spread, and it was clear that the kitchen had prepared Jameson's portion despite his late arrival. One glance told me none of these were dishes I liked, but of course, they were all Jameson's favorites. I sat down and began eating, realizing how hungry I was after everything that had happened. After a while, Jameson came downstairs, clearly angry about our earlier encounter. He sat far away from me, serving himself without sparing me a glance. I was more than happy to ignore him too. The dining room was eerily quiet as we ate, each lost in our own thoughts. Suddenly, Jameson asked, "Lorna, where's the tripe soup today?" Lorna, the middle-aged maid from earlier, glanced at me accusingly. "Ms. Lambert didn't make it today, so there isn't any. Mr. Brown, please don't blame me." I frowned at Lorna, challenging her, "What do you mean by that? Since when is making soup my responsibility? So I'm at fault now?" Jameson slammed his utensils on the table. "Didn't you always make it? Lorna doesn't know how." I laughed bitterly, setting aside my utensils and wiping my mouth with exaggerated grace. "Mr. Brown, let's get something straight. I'm your wife, not your maid. Isn't a table full of your favorite dishes enough? Now I have to make your soup too? What do I owe you for, exactly? Jameson seemed shocked by my outburst. His eyes showed surprise and annoyance. "Wynonna, don't try to spite me by withholding my favorite soup. You're the one who insisted on learning it from the chef to cook for me, and now you're refusing?" he said incredulously. He added, "What's your game? If you're still angry, deal with it yourself. Don't make a scene at dinner." I smirked. "Haven't you understood what I mean? Jameson, I'm done serving you!" I threw my napkin on the table and headed for the stairs, completely fed up with this arrogant, selfish man. I couldn't believe how blind I had been to fall for such a jerk. Jameson seemed stunned by my dramatic exit while Lorna kept muttering, "Ms. Lambert used to cook all of Mr. Brown's favorite dishes herself, including the tripe soup. Now she's just giving up everything…" I was still seething with anger when the doorbell rang. I instinctively looked toward the entrance as Lorna went to answer it. Soon, a graceful figure glided in—she was stunning, with delicate features, wearing a perfectly tailored light blue dress and a pearl necklace that complemented her fair skin. Her presence was like a work of art; even as a woman, I had to admit I was envious. She approached Jameson, her voice soft and melodic. "Jameson, I hope I'm not interrupting." Jameson's stony expression instantly melted into tenderness. He took her bag and thoughtfully found her a clean pair of slippers. I watched this scene with a bitter sense of irony, finding it darkly amusing. My husband, who had just thrown a tantrum because I didn't make his favorite soup, was now bending down to help this beautiful woman with her shoes.