Chapter 3

I watched from the shadows of the hospital corridor, my own pain a dull counterpoint to the sharp agony in my chest. Carlton, clad in his expensive suit, his face pale and drawn, was signing papers at the nurse's station. His hand trembled slightly as he scrawled his signature, his eyes fixed on the form. My ears, straining, caught the nurse's question.

"Relationship to the patient, Dr. Mejia?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then looked up, his voice clear, though strained. "Her husband."

The word "husband" slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. My "husband." He had once refused to even acknowledge our relationship publicly for fear of "professional repercussions." He had insisted we keep our engagement a secret for months, citing his need to "maintain an objective image." He cherished his reputation above all else. But for Carmen, he would throw it all away. For Carmen, he was willing to lie, to risk everything.

He then rushed back to Carmen's room, his eyes filled with a raw, agonizing worry I had never, ever seen directed at me. He was capable of such profound emotion. Just not for me. He was broken for her, just as he was for his public image. He would break all his rules, abandon all his principles, for this woman.

He felt my stare, his head snapping up. But I was already gone, melting back into the shadows of the hospital, leaving him to his new life, his new "wife."

When he finally returned home hours later, the first thing he did was head straight to the laundry room. I watched him, hidden in the shadows of the living room, as he meticulously, almost reverently, hand-washed the blood-stained shirt he' d worn. That same shirt he' d been so careful not to let me see. The man who wore white gloves to change a lightbulb, now scrubbing away Carmen' s blood. The irony was a bitter pill.

He walked past me, still oblivious, heading straight to the kitchen. "Carmen had a rough night," he said, avoiding my gaze. He began preparing a steaming bowl of broth, the rich aroma filling the house. He didn't offer me any. He didn't even look at me.

He carefully poured the broth into a thermos, grabbed a bouquet of fresh flowers, and headed for the door. "I'm going back to the hospital. She needs me." He paused, then added, "It was a mistake to leave her alone."

I watched him go, the thermos of broth in his hand, the flowers clutched tight. His concern, his devotion, was all for her. My own dinner, left cold on the table, was a stark reminder of my place in his life: nowhere.

My phone buzzed. A notification. Carmen Hodges. A new post on her social media. A photo of her, pale but smiling, nestled against Carlton' s shoulder, his arm around her. The caption: "My hero. He saved me again. So much pain, but his love makes it bearable."

My hero. His love. I remembered the times I had been sick, injured. He had offered clinical advice, a prescription. Never this tender embrace, this public declaration. My stomach churned, a familiar wave of nausea washing over me, but this time it wasn' t just the tumor. It was pure, unadulterated disgust.

A faint tightness in my chest, a suffocating pressure. I needed air. I needed to breathe. And I needed answers.

Carlton's study. His "sanctuary." A place he guarded with fierce possessiveness, claiming it was for "deep thought" and "patient confidentiality." It was the one place in our house he always kept locked, the one place I had never entered. I used to joke about it, "It's where he keeps all his secrets, darling," hoping to coax a playful confession. Now, I knew it was where he kept her secrets.

The door was unlocked. A careless oversight, or perhaps he was too consumed by Carmen to remember. My heart pounded as I pushed it open. The air was thick with the faint scent of his cologne, mingled with something sweet and cheap-Carmen's perfume.

My eyes scanned the room, landing on his desk. Amidst scattered medical journals and patient files, a small, floral-patterned notebook lay half-hidden. Carmen' s diary. My fingers trembled as I picked it up.

I flipped it open, my eyes devouring the hurried scrawl.

October 15th. He looked at me today. The way he looks at his precious patients. So kind. So worried. If only he knew the mess I' m in. If only he knew the man I' m married to.

November 3rd. He offered me a gift card for a grocery store. To help with the "abuse." He's so easy to manipulate. He thinks he's helping. He thinks he's saving me.

November 20th. He fired me today. My heart shattered, but it's part of the plan. Make him feel guilty. Make him miss me. I saw the look in his eyes. He wants to help.

December 1st. He visited me! He said he couldn't stop thinking about me. We talked for hours. He was so gentle. So understanding. He even touched my hand.

December 15th. He came again. This time, in his study. He said it was just "somatic therapy." But his eyes, they wandered. He wants me. I know it. And I want him. His money, his fame. All of it.

December 17th. Our anniversary. Today! I knew he' d come. He couldn' t resist. He' s mine now. He's so good in bed, so passionate. He pretended it was therapy, but we both knew. He feels guilty, though. He promised me a huge sum of money, a house, a new identity. Just for being "his patient." He' s worried about his reputation, but he cares more about me. He told me he'd handle Alexis. She's so clueless, she won't even suspect.

My vision blurred, not with tears, but with a cold, blinding rage. Every word was a fresh stab, every sentence a revelation of grotesque betrayal. They had been sleeping together for weeks, probably months. In his study. In our house. While I, the dutiful wife, was planning our anniversary. While I was carrying his child, our miracle baby.

He didn't just betray me. He orchestrated my emotional torture. He let me believe his lies, let me suffer, all while giving Carmen a blueprint for deceit. "He'd handle Alexis." What a monster.

I felt like an utter fool. A pawn in their disgusting game. The tumor in my head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat against my skull, but it was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. My marriage was dead, long before I found them. It had been murdered, slowly and meticulously, by the two people closest to me.

My hands clenched around the diary, my knuckles white. Tears finally streamed down my face, hot and stinging, blurring the vile words. How could he? How could I have been so blind?

Why didn't you just tell me? I screamed inwardly at Carlton. Why the elaborate charade? Why the cruelty?

My phone was still in my hand. I switched to the camera, my fingers steady despite the trembling in my body. Click, click, click. Every page, every incriminating word, captured. Evidence.

I carefully placed the diary back where I found it, a faint smile playing on my lips. He was still at the hospital, playing the hero to his "patient." He wouldn't know. Not yet.

I left the study, the door closing softly behind me, erasing the scent of Carmen. My next call was to my CEO. I needed to arrange some things at the company. I needed to move fast. I needed to be gone.