Only the Begonia Remains the Same

"The Financial Weekly ran photos of me and Sharon."

Patrick opened the folder to reveal a series of high-definition paparazzi shots:

Him with Sharon in a bubble tea shop, the girl tilting her head back, guiding a straw toward his mouth.

The straw bore the unmistakable smudge of lipstick—Sharon’s, clearly.

And Patrick, who’d never had a sweet tooth, had nothing but pure sweetness swimming in his eyes.

The photos were dated two days ago.

The same day Margaret lay unconscious on an operating table.

"Now the public is accusing her of coming between us. Some are even calling her out directly in their social circles."

Margaret’s gaze shifted from the photos to Patrick’s face. "So?"

His voice was gentle, yet left no room for argument. "I’ve already issued a statement. You are not my fiancée."

Margaret suppressed the sneer tugging at her lips. "But we’re getting married at the end of the month. The wedding planner has everything ready. The invitations were about to go out. How do you plan to explain *that*?"

Patrick replied coolly, "The wedding will proceed as scheduled. Just with a different bride. I’ll marry Sharon first."

"It’s only temporary. Once this scandal dies down, Sharon and I will divorce. Then I’ll marry you."

"Margaret, you just need to focus on recovering. Wait for me quietly. That’s all."

A wave of tinnitus washed over Margaret.

She remembered the abandoned warehouse three days earlier. When the kidnapper forced Patrick to choose between them, he’d used that exact same tone. "Margaret, wait for me."

Margaret couldn’t help but laugh.

All the grievance and disappointment welled up inside her. She laughed until tears streamed down her face.

Patrick was stunned. He reached out to touch her cheek, but Margaret jerked away violently, knocking over the water glass on the bedside table.

"Calm down," Patrick frowned. "I know this isn’t fair to you. But Sharon is so vulnerable. She has no one else. I can’t let her face this public shaming alone."

Margaret finally stopped laughing. She closed her mouth and said nothing.

Patrick sighed and sank into the chair beside the bed.

"Get some rest. I’ll stay with you."

But the very next second, his phone rang.

Patrick glanced at the screen and scrambled to his feet.

"Sharon’s surrounded by paparazzi. I have to go get her."

"You rest. I’ll visit another time."

Margaret watched him dash out of the hospital room, her heart a desolate wasteland. Once again, she had lost to Sharon.

Fifteen years of mutual support and companionship—all of it—couldn’t measure up to a college classmate he’d met only in his senior year.

Margaret forced herself not to grieve, not to overthink.

Just consider all those years of genuine feeling fed to a dog.

But the hurt wouldn’t stop.

To keep from obsessing over Patrick’s news, Margaret threw herself completely into her finger rehabilitation.

Even though every session left her drenched in sweat from the pain.

One day, as Margaret was slowly shuffling out of the rehab room, leaning heavily on the wall, a cloud of perfume hit her at the corridor’s corner.

"Ah!"

Sharon tumbled to the floor, her eyes instantly welling up. "Margaret…"

The impact sent a sharp pain through Margaret’s chest, and the ensuing sobs made her head throb.

"Could you please shut up?"

Sharon paused, then suddenly knelt upright. She seized Margaret’s heavily bandaged hand and pressed it against her own face.

"I’m sorry! It’s all my fault! If Patrick had chosen you that day, you wouldn’t have been hurt like this."

Her voice choked with sobs, she bowed her head so low her forehead nearly touched the floor tiles.

Her open collar revealed a suggestive red mark on her collarbone.

Margaret tried to pull her hand back, but the damaged joints in her fingers had no strength left.

"What’s going on here?"