Chapter 4

His words, "You haven't worked in months," hung in the air, a poisonous, lingering accusation. It was true, I hadn't. I had given up my career, my identity, for us. For him. I remembered the conversation clearly, the day I made the hardest decision of my life.

"Aria, your ankle is serious," the doctor had said, his voice grave. "Another year of competitive skating, and you risk permanent damage. You may never walk without pain again."

I had broken down, my dreams shattering around me. Elliott had been there, or so I thought. He had held me, whispered reassurances. "It's okay, my love. We'll be fine. You've earned enough. Take a break. Let's start a family. I'll take care of everything. My income is more than enough for both of us. What's mine is yours, remember?"

I had believed him. Naively, foolishly, I had believed him. I had retired from professional skating, focusing on my recovery, on building a home, on us. I had poured my energy into making our house a sanctuary, a place of peace. I had trusted him implicitly, completely. Now, that trust was a crumbled ruin, and he was using my very sacrifice, my love, as a weapon against me.

"Aria?" His voice, still slurred, cut through my memories. "Are you still there? Look, I'm tired. I have a lot on my plate. I think it's time we faced facts. This isn't working anymore. I want a divorce."

The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering against the hardwood floor. Divorce. The word echoed in the empty house, cold and final. It had never even been a possibility in my mind. Not for us. Not for me. I had believed in forever, in the sanctity of our vows.

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, lying there like a broken toy. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with unspoken words and shattered promises. Days bled into weeks, marked by an agonizing standoff. Elliott didn't come home. He didn't call. Instead, another notification from the bank-he had frozen our joint accounts. He was cutting me off, systematically dismantling my financial independence, leaving me stranded.

My body, already weakened by the injury and emotional stress, began to truly unravel. My hair started falling out in clumps, leaving thin patches on my scalp. I was constantly exhausted, yet sleep offered no respite, only nightmares. My appetite vanished, leaving me gaunt and pale. I developed a persistent, throbbing headache that never truly faded. I brushed it off as stress, as a persistent virus, telling myself it was just a bad cold.

But the symptoms worsened. The tingling in my fingers, the growing numbness in my feet. The sudden, inexplicable dizziness. One morning, I woke up unable to feel my left arm. Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced through my haze of despair. This wasn't just a cold.

I dragged myself to the local clinic, hoping for some antibiotics, some simple fix. The doctor, a kind-faced woman who looked too young for her profession, listened patiently, her brow furrowing with concern. She ran a battery of tests, her expression growing increasingly serious with each result. "Aria," she finally said, her voice soft, "I need you to see a specialist. And... these results... they're quite concerning. I've scheduled you for some further imaging, an MRI, right away." The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape.

The next day, a blur of fear and sterile hospital corridors, I was on my way to pick up the specialist's report. My hands trembled, the envelope feeling impossibly heavy. As I approached the main lobby, a familiar laugh echoed through the cavernous space. My blood froze.

Elliott. And Kelsie.

They were standing by the information desk, too close, their heads bent together in what looked like intimate conversation. Kelsie wore a flowing maternity dress, her belly noticeably rounded. My breath caught. She was pregnant. With Elliott's child. The world tilted on its axis, threatening to swallow me whole.

Elliott reached out, gently stroking her arm, his expression soft, adoring. The same look he used to give me when I told him about a successful jump, a perfect landing. A look of pride, of love. Now, it was for her, for their future.

I tried to slip past them, my head down, desperate to avoid confrontation. My chest tightened, burning with a fresh, agonizing pain. I just wanted to disappear. But Kelsie, with her sharp, predatory gaze, spotted me.

"Aria!" she called out, her voice syrupy sweet, dripping with false concern. "Oh, honey, are you okay? You look awful. What are you doing at the hospital? Is it your ankle again? Don't tell me you've tried to skate." She linked her arm through Elliott's, a possessive gesture. Her smile was saccharine, but her eyes glittered with triumph.

I tried to just keep walking, to ignore her, to ignore the crushing weight of their combined presence. But my body, already betraying me, chose that moment to falter. My injured ankle twisted, a sharp pain shooting up my leg. I cried out, losing my balance. Everything went black for a split second as I fell, hitting the polished hospital floor with a sickening thud. The envelope flew from my hand, scattering the neatly stapled medical reports across the pristine white tiles.

"Oh, my God!" Kelsie shrieked, a hand flying to her belly. "Be careful, Aria! You almost hit me! You could have hurt the baby!" Her voice was loud, dramatic, drawing stares from curious onlookers.

Elliott immediately rushed to her side, his arm wrapping protectively around her. "Kelsie! Are you okay? Is the baby okay?" He scanned her face, his brow furrowed with concern, completely ignoring me, lying in a heap on the floor, my knee throbbing, my face stinging from the impact.

"Elliott!" I cried, pushing myself up onto my elbows, a fresh wave of pain washing over me. "I fell! I'm hurt!"

He finally looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Annoyance? Disgust? "Can't you be more careful, Aria?" he snapped, his voice sharp. "You're always causing a scene. Look at Kelsie, you've upset her! She's pregnant!"

My jaw dropped. He was blaming me? For falling, for being hurt, for existing? "She just called me old and pathetic, then she pushed me while I was already injured!" The indignation, the sheer injustice of it, fueled a desperate surge of adrenaline.

His gaze finally dropped to my scraped knee, a thin trickle of blood already forming. A fleeting flicker of something-regret? guilt?-crossed his face, quickly replaced by a stone-cold mask. But it was too late. The damage was done. The truth was laid bare. He didn't care. He simply didn't care.

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the throbbing pain, ignoring the curious stares. My movements were slow, deliberate. I bent down to gather the scattered medical reports, my fingers brushing against the stark white pages.

Suddenly, Kelsie's foot shot out, deliberately stomping on one of the pages. "Oops," she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "So clumsy." Her eyes, however, were anything but innocent. They were filled with a venomous satisfaction.

A red haze descended. She wasn't just stomping on a piece of paper. She was stomping on my life, on my dignity, on my last shred of hope. My hands clenched into fists. I snatched the papers from beneath her foot, my body vibrating with a raw, primal fury. "You BITCH!" I screamed, and without thinking, I lashed out, my open palm connecting sharply with her cheek.