Chapter 2: The Truth Hurts

Panicked, I instinctively dialed Blake’s number.

“What is it?”

He was so cold.

I bit my lip, flustered and hurt. “Where did you go?”

“Work.”

“Auto shop.”

After a pause—

Blake’s voice came through the phone, icy.

“Planning to bring up my past again, aren’t you?”

“What past?” I was baffled. “Aren’t you working at the auto shop? And last night, we were clearly at your rented place, so how come today—”

“Beep…”

Before I could finish, there was only the busy tone.

Blake actually hung up on me.

Jerk.

I muttered under my breath.

Just as I was about to call him back, my gaze froze on the phone screen.

2030…

It’s already five years later?

I stared stiffly at my rounded belly, finally realizing I might have woken up five years in the future.

And was pregnant.

I scanned my phone for more clues—a row of missed calls from names I barely recognized, unfamiliar apps crowding my home screen, and a news alert about a pop star I’d never heard of. This wasn’t just a bad dream. I was really here.

There was an old photo on the nightstand.

A brightly dressed me, and Blake in a sleeveless tee, tough and handsome.

Calming myself, I called again.

“Blake, we got married, right?”

“How many years have we been married?”

“How did my dad agree to let me marry you?”

I was desperate to know what had happened in these five years.

But—

Blake seemed to misunderstand.

He gave a bitter laugh. “Rachel, you want to say you regret it again, don’t you? This is the third time this month you’ve brought up divorce.”

He paused. “I’ve said before, I won’t agree to a divorce.”

The line crackled faintly as I pressed the phone harder to my ear, hoping for any warmth in his tone. All I found was the echo of my own anxiety bouncing off the cold silence. Outside, a lawn mower buzzed—just another suburban morning—while my world tilted on its axis.

“Who wants to divorce you?”

I was surprised.

That face of Blake, those strong arms, that stamina, and now he even seemed rich—

How crazy would I have to be to want to divorce him?

It was very quiet on the other end of the phone.

So quiet I could hear his breathing suddenly quicken.

After a long while—

He said flatly, “Whatever you want.”

Before I could say anything, the call was hung up again.

No, why is this man so stubborn now?

Probably because I spoiled him.

Men shouldn’t be spoiled.

Now that I knew I was in my own home, I finally relaxed.

I got ready to change clothes and go downstairs.

But when I opened the closet, I was instantly stunned.

A riot of garish colors.

Each style more tacky than the last.

Geez.

Is this really my taste in the future?

I reluctantly picked a relatively plain dress, changed into it, and shuffled downstairs in slippers.

Unexpectedly, I ran into a familiar face downstairs.

“Aunt Linda?”

I was overjoyed. Aunt Linda had been our housekeeper for more than twenty years.

In this unfamiliar future, seeing someone close made me feel especially grounded.

“Just in time,” I took her arm affectionately, “I’m going to cook for Blake myself. With you teaching me, I feel confident.”

Aunt Linda’s expression was a bit complicated.

She hesitated, then gently advised, “Miss Rachel, you’re not about to get Mr. Blake all riled up again, are you?”

Mess with him?

Thinking of my terrible cooking skills—

That wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

She wanted to say more, but I cut her off. “I know Blake. Even if it tastes bad, he’ll grit his teeth and finish it.”

Aunt Linda gave me that look, the one she used to reserve for my childhood schemes—half scolding, half fond. She patted my hand, her silver wedding ring glinting in the kitchen light. “You always were a handful,” she sighed, then handed me a floral apron that smelled like lemon detergent. The kitchen clock ticked in the background, and for a moment, the world almost made sense again.