For Five Years, My Husband Loved Me Like a Replacement Chapter 02
The next morning, Julian sat at the table reading financial news.
I brought out breakfast.
He glanced at it. “Maren has a follow-up appointment at the hospital today. You’re going with her.”
My hand froze around the plate.
“I’m submitting my piece to the gallery today.”
Julian looked up. “Cancel it.”
I held his gaze. “I booked this three months ago.”
“Maren’s health can’t wait.”
His tone was flat, like he was scheduling a driver.
“She can take her assistant,” I said.
Julian set his coffee cup down. The porcelain cup touched the tabletop with a soft clink.
“Vivian, when did you get so cold?”
A laugh almost escaped me.
Five years of marriage. I caught a fever once — he sent a driver with medicine and said he had a meeting. I doubled over with stomach pain — he told me to take a cab to the hospital because Maren had a lab accident and he had to go.
But Maren only had a check-up.
And I was the cold one.
My phone buzzed.
My mother.
I barely got a word in before she fired off: “Maren’s appointment is today. Why aren’t you there yet?”
I glanced at Julian. His expression didn’t shift.
Mom kept going. “She’s been fragile since childhood. It’s your job as the younger sister to look out for her. You already got lucky marrying Julian — don’t be ungrateful.”
I spoke quietly. “Mom, yesterday was my birthday too. Do you remember?”
A pause on the other end.
“Didn’t Julian send you flowers yesterday? Your sister’s health isn’t good. Stop comparing yourself to her over everything.”
I smiled.
So that was it. Maren was supposed to be favored. And I was supposed to be grateful for a single bouquet.
Julian stood, sliding his car keys across the counter toward me.
“Go to the hospital. I’ll have someone deliver your painting to the gallery.”
I pushed the keys back.
“I’ll submit my own pieces.”
His face cooled. “Those paintings of yours really have to be submitted today?”
“Yes.”
He studied me, then said, “Do you really think you’ve been wronged?”
I didn’t answer.
He picked up his phone and dialed his assistant right in front of me.
“Tell Curator Chen that Vivian won’t make it today. That piece is out of the show.”
My head snapped up. “Julian.”
He ended the call and looked at me.
“Ready for the hospital now?”
My hands curled into fists.
I’d spent six months on that painting. A single white rose on a windowsill, already wilting.
The gallery had saved me a spot. It would’ve been the first exhibition where I could finally show my work under my own name.
I hadn’t told Julian. Because I knew he’d say it didn’t matter.
And still — with one casual sentence — he’d erased it.
Maren’s call came through right then.
Julian answered, voice softening immediately. “Don’t worry. We’re on our way.”
My sister’s voice drifted through. “Is Vivian upset about it? Forget it. I can go alone.”
Julian looked at me. “She’s coming.”
I asked, “If I were the one in the hospital today — would you do the same?”
Julian’s brow flickered.
“You’ve always been healthy.”
“So that means I don’t deserve to be cared about?”
He was quiet for two beats. Then he grabbed his coat.
“Don’t make it sound so harsh.”
*
At the hospital, Maren leaned back in her chair, face a little pale.
Julian crouched in front of her, adjusting her scarf. “Cold?”
She shook her head, then turned to me. “Vivian, is your gallery thing okay? Julian’s just worried about me.”
I looked at the scarf around her neck. Light gray. Soft cashmere.
Last year, Julian had brought back two scarves from overseas. Mine was white. It left red marks on my neck after one wear.
He’d said back then, “Same brand. How different could they be?”
Turns out — very different.
After the examination, the doctor said there was nothing serious.
Julian’s shoulders dropped with relief.
Maren smiled. “Let’s get lunch. Make up for your birthday.”
Julian nodded. “What do you want?”
I stood to the side when my phone buzzed.
A message from my gallery instructor.
“Vivian, your spot was given to someone else. Sorry.”
I stared at the words.
Julian was already opening the car door for Maren. He looked back at me. “Get in.”
I slid my phone into my bag. “You two go.”
Julian frowned. “What now?”
I didn’t answer.
I turned, but Maren called out. “Vivian — about that white rose painting. Curator Chen said it’s a shame.”
She smiled.
“I just happen to have an amateur painting of pink ranunculus I’d planned to submit. He said I could hang it in your old spot.”