Gold Digger vs Gold Saver My Man's Double Life novel Chapter 2

**Marriage Without Temperature by Mark Twain 2**
**Chapter 2**

As I sat on the couch, my thoughts began to drift back to memories I had tried desperately to bury. It felt like a tidal wave of recollections crashing over me, forcing me to confront what I’d rather avoid.

It had been six months since that fateful night. Grant had returned home late, his demeanor heavy and worn, as if he had just emerged from a battlefield. The sight of him stirred a deep concern within me.

“Rough shift?” I had inquired, my voice laced with sympathy.

“Yeah. Difficult patient,” he replied, his tone almost dismissive, as if the weight of the situation was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“What happened?” I pressed, needing to understand the source of his distress.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, a telltale sign of the long hours he had endured. “Young woman. Injuries from… rough sex, I think. Heard she worked at some club.” The way he said it made it seem trivial, almost as if he were recounting the weather. “Took forever to patch her up.”

“Was it that bad?” I asked, my heart sinking at the thought of the pain she must have endured.

“Bad enough,” he paused, his eyes drifting away as if he were still at the hospital, reliving the chaos. “But she’ll be fine.”

His assurance did little to soothe my own worries. I chose to focus on comforting him instead. “ER life, right? You never know what’s coming through those doors.”

He enveloped me in his arms, holding me close, as if I were a lifeline amidst the storm of his thoughts. “Thank God you’re not mixed up in anything like that,” he murmured, relief evident in his voice.

I couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. “What, you want me showing up in your ER?” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

A long silence followed, stretching between us like an invisible thread. Then, in a whisper so soft I almost missed it, he said, “I just want you safe. That’s all.”

His grip on me felt different that night—tighter, more desperate—as though he feared losing me to the very chaos he faced daily.

I had assumed he was merely processing a particularly tough case. How could I have been so blind to the deeper currents beneath the surface?

Sinking into the couch, I found my gaze drawn to the framed photo hanging on the wall. It was from last year, a sun-drenched moment in Sedona, with his arm wrapped around me, both of us squinting against the brightness.

This home—our home—we had purchased it together two years ago, splitting every expense down the middle, both our names proudly inscribed on the mortgage.

We had bickered over paint colors and appliance brands, yet each time, I was the one who relented, believing that love was about compromise and sacrifice.

“FaceTime. Right now.”

There was a pause, a moment where I sensed his hesitation.

“Liv, there are other people here. That’s not—look, can we talk later?” His voice softened, but I could detect the irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

Once upon a time, I had interpreted that softness as a sign of respect for boundaries. Now, however, it felt like a barrier, a wall he was erecting between us.

“FaceTime me, Grant.”

“I’m working. Jesus, Olivia, can you not be so clingy for five seconds?” The word hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste, his favorite label whenever I sought his attention.

“I’m coming to the hospital. Be there in thirty,” I declared, my resolve hardening.

“Are you serious right now? It’s five-thirty in the—”

I hung up before he could finish, a surge of determination propelling me forward.