Gold Digger vs Gold Saver My Man's Double Life novel Chapter 3

**Marriage Without Temperature by Mark Twain**

**Chapter 3**

I chose not to go to the hospital.

After ending the call, I sank into the couch, feeling its familiar contours as the first rays of dawn seeped through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. The world outside was waking up, but I felt trapped in a haze of uncertainty.

My phone buzzed incessantly beside me. Three missed calls from Grant flashed on the screen, each one a reminder of the chaos that had erupted between us. I let them all ring through to voicemail, unwilling to engage just yet.

Then came the flood of messages:

[Liv, I’m sorry. I was out of line.]

[But I don’t want you driving around at this hour. I’m off this afternoon—let’s talk then, okay?]

I stared at the screen, the words swimming before my eyes, as I wrestled with my thoughts. It took me a full thirty minutes to muster the courage to respond, my fingers hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back, a single word that felt heavy with implication:

[Fine.]

I needed space to think. More than that, I craved tangible proof. Without it, I knew Grant would twist the narrative, portraying me as the paranoid girlfriend who couldn’t cope with his demanding career.

Determined, I accessed the hospital’s portal and pulled up his shift schedules, meticulously cross-referencing his clock-in records. The more I uncovered, the more my heart raced with a mix of dread and resolve. After gathering what I needed, I drove to the jewelry store OP had mentioned in her post, my mind racing with questions and fears.

By the time I finished my errands, all I truly wanted was to retreat to the sanctuary of my home and wait for the storm to pass. But fate had other plans. As I approached my building, I spotted her waiting outside.

In her early twenties, she wore heavy makeup that accentuated her features and a bodycon dress that left little to the imagination, making her intentions painfully clear.

“Olivia?” Her voice was breathy, almost rehearsed, as if she had practiced this moment a hundred times.

I halted, a sense of foreboding washing over me. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Amber.” She smiled, but it felt fragile, as if it could shatter at any moment. “I… care about Dr. Archer.”

My heart plummeted at her admission, a sinking feeling that left me reeling.

Her gaze roamed over me, assessing, sizing up the competition without any pretense of subtlety.

“He talks about you all the time,” she continued, her voice laced with a mixture of admiration and desperation. “He says you’re brilliant. A neurosurgery prodigy.”

“Get to the point,” I snapped, my patience wearing thin.

Suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears, and without warning, she sank to her knees on the sidewalk, a desperate plea etched across her face.

“Please. Let him go!”

As the evening commuters passed by, their heads turned in our direction, curiosity piqued. Phones appeared as if drawn by an invisible force, capturing this spectacle.

“What are you doing? Get up—” I urged, feeling a mix of anger and disbelief.

“I know I’m nothing compared to you.” Tears streamed down her cheeks in a well-rehearsed performance. “I know my choices make me worthless. But he’s the only person who ever treated me like I mattered.”

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