Twisted Ties of Love

Izabella had learned the hard way that skipping meals and erratic eating habits could lead to serious stomach issues. She had endured gastric ailments before, even stomach cancer.

Brett voiced his concern now, saying he feared for her pain, for her discomfort, for the agony of another bout of gastritis. Yet, he seemed to forget that he, of all people, had been the source of her deepest hurts.

Abusers seldom saw themselves as the villains in any story.

True to his nature, Brett was an embodiment of relentless severity. He had the uncanny ability to make someone suffer - and then find a way to twist the knife even deeper.

Their conversation, circuitous as ever, seemed to spiral back to the same old wounds. Brett knew that if this continued, Izabella would clash with him once more.

Eating a little was better than not at all. Brett finally said after a tense silence, attempting to change the subject, "Let's not make a fuss about it. Being upset will take a toll on your body."

"So now you acknowledge that stress can take a toll on the body? Irony doesn't begin to cover the number of times you've pushed me to the brink," Izabella retorted, slamming her plate down and standing up, her eyes reddening with anger.

"Brett, you really couldn't care less, could you? The only reason you're clinging on to me is your damn pride. President Windham can dump others, but God forbid you're the one getting dumped. Does it eat you up inside to see your discarded plaything finding happiness with someone else? Does it?" Her voice rose despite her efforts to stay calm, the words spilling out like the desperate roars of a cornered animal.

Brett remained silent, sitting still, his hand trembling at Izabella's words as he held his fork.

It was his right hand that held the fork, yet for some inexplicable reason, his left hand throbbed with pain. The scar in his palm, long since healed, seemed to rip open anew.

His palm had been severely cut by Izabella's knife.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

The one he had pushed away had forfeited his right to regret.

Izabella's eyes fell, "Brett, you always do things that leave me utterly baffled. What are you after? Are you genuinely looking out for me, trying to prove you're right, or just trying to drag others down to your leve so you can feel less guilty about your past?"

People on the brink often compared themselves to those they perceived as worse off - it was as if they thought death would erase their regrets.

Brett remained mute.

Seeing his stoic expression, Izabella let out a self-deprecating laugh, then turned and walked into the living room. She flopped onto the couch and instinctively reached for her phone to check her messages, only to remember that she had turned off the Wi-Fi.

Time used to fly by for her. Now, every second was an ordeal.

Brett quietly finished the remaining food on the table, blood from his mouth mixing with the flavors. He had never been one for cooking; he loathed the smell of grease that lingered in a kitchen.

He usually dined out or had restaurant food delivered to his door. Eventually, finding even that too bothersome, he hired a chef. Still, the chef's creations never quite matched up to Izabella's.

No matter how good the food was outside, it could become tiresome. But home-cooked meals, no matter how simple, were something one could never grow weary of. If deprived of them, the longing would persist.

He yearned for another taste of Izabella's cooking.

For four years, Izabella had cooked for him, and not once had he shown appreciation. Now, her dishes were a luxury he could never again afford.

After Izabella's death, Brett had been tormented by a severe breakdown, desperately seeking chefs to replicate her culinary touch.

He scoured J City but found nothing. Then he traveled to R City, recalling a little dumpling restaurant near the University of R City that Izabella had often mentioned.

One bite, and he knew it was her favorite.

The owner had only seen Brett in photographs. That year when Izabella married Brett, she was the only one who was ecstatic, who would want to tell everyone that she married someone she loved.

But deep down, she was aware that Brett didn't love her; the more boisterous there was in the wedding, the more disgusted Brett felt towards her.

The day before the wedding, she took a photo of Brett to that restaurant, and ordered some dumplings. Acting like a young girl who had just started in a relationship and harbored anticipation for future life, she said to the owner, pointing at the photo, "Mrs. Jones, I'm getting married. I'll live happily forever with him."

Perhaps at that time, even Izabella herself didn't know life was short. Four grinding years had eaten up her entire passion, just like hot water, which would turn icy cold with time. People's feelings could never be tested.

Even a stone would turn flat after being unceasingly ground. People's emotion was somewhat vulnerable, not able to stand torture.

Maybe that so-called "forever" was the past life, or maybe the next, but it'd never be in this lifetime.

Izabella had received many well-wishes on her wedding day, including Mrs. Jones's kind words. However, the happiness of that day was far from reality, with Brett treating her as nothing more than a disposable doll for his use, never fulfilling his duty as a married couple.

No one could have guessed that Izabella would one day die at the hands of the man she had believed would bring her happiness. The Izabella who had once been full of life was now reduced to ashes; she was no longer the same Izabella she once was.

Later, Brett became a regular at the restaurant, where Mrs. Jones would chat warmly with him and eventually recognized him, who shared many

stories about Izabella's on for

him with her, stories that were common knowledge to everyone, but about those of him mistreating her, not many people knew except the few who cared about Izabella much.

The dumplings were Izabella's favorite, and Brett wanted to learn to make them. Mrs. Jones, tired of his persistence, eventually gave him an address to seek out help himself.

The address which the owner offered was the place of a cook who had taught Izabella. The retired cook initially refused but relented after Brett knelt outside his door for nearly an hour, his legs numbing from the gesture.

Brett learned to cook from the same man as Izabella, and his dishes came close to replicating hers.

In the three years following Izabella's death, Brett's psyche split, as if his soul had been cleaved in two.

Brett had searched high and low for a chef who could replicate Izabella's signature flavors in the kitchen, but to no avail. In the end, it was he who mastered the craft. With each bite of his homemade dishes, he felt as though Izabella was still there beside him.

He methodically ate every morsel, forcing down mouthfuls even when he was full, until the table was clear of food. Standing up, he gathered the dishes and headed to the kitchen.

The sound of running water echoed as Brett washed up. Izabella glanced in his direction, remembering how he had always been a bit obsessive about cleanliness. It was one thing to cook, but for Brett to actually do the dishes was another.

After cleaning up, Brett returned to the living room, idly flipping through the calendar on his phone.

"What are your plans for Christmas this year?" He asked, noticing a dimming in Izabella's eyes.

"If you didn't meddle in, I was supposed to spend it with Casey," they had planned to set up a huge Christmas tree and celebrate properly, complete with thoughtfully chosen gifts. But now, Brett's presence was throwing a wrench in those plans.

Christmas was still over a month away, and the days were growing incrementally colder.

Truth be told, Brett wasn't looking

forward to Christmas at all. To

others, it was a festive holiday, an

ideal time for romantic dates. But for Brett, Christmas brought no joy; it only served as a reminder that five years ago, he had gotten engaged to Kaley on Christmas Day, the very day Izabella perished in a tragic fire. For him, Christmas was a day of mourning.

Presley's words still haunted him, "Remember, Brett, every year marks her anniversary."

He remembered it clearly. It was a memory that clung to him every day, impossible to forget.

"Don't you love the snow? What if I took you up north to see it? We could build snowmen, have snowball fights, and if you get cold, there are hot springs to warm up in."

Izabella pressed her lips, remaining silent.

Brett rambled on, addressing no one in particular, "If you don't fancy the snow, we could go on a coastal holiday. It's warm there; you wouldn't need to bundle up in a heavy coat. I remember you said you loved the ocean, and you once told me if we ever got married, we'd honeymoon on Coconut Island."

Izabella often accused him of not caring enough, and Liam echoed the sentiment, saying that Brett had been overly attentive to Kaley's every whim, rushing her to the hospital for the smallest ailment, yet he seemed indifferent when Izabella was coughing blood for the constant blooding drawing.

Was it truly indifference born from a lack of love?

But Brett could recall every glance, every smile from Izabella. He knew her likes, her dislikes; he was aware of her aversion to the cold and her fear of pain. A casual remark about enjoying the snow or a beach vacation was etched in his memory forever.

(Apologies for yesterday's

confusion. I was exhausted and in a

rush, and after submitting the

chapter, realized it was riddled with

typos. I've made corrections, but unfortunately, I can't update the published version. So, if you guys me know. I'll also report them through another account to speed up the process.)

spot any typos, please let guys