Chapter 3

The cafe Sarah chose was a bright, trendy spot downtown, the kind of place where conversations were held in hushed, important tones. I saw her as soon as I walked in. She was sitting at a small table by the window, a sliver of sunlight illuminating her honey-blonde hair. She looked exactly like her pictures. And she looked exactly like me. Or rather, I looked like her. Seeing my own face, the one I had paid for, sitting across a table from me was a disorienting, nauseating experience.

She smiled as I approached, a small, knowing smile that didn't reach her eyes. The leather-bound sketchbook was on the table next to her hand.

"Eleanor," she said, her voice soft and melodious. "It's so good to finally put a face to the name. Though, I suppose I've had a general idea."

The subtle dig landed exactly as she'd intended. I sat down, my spine rigid. "You have my sketchbook."

"This old thing?" She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the cover. "Liam was going to throw it out. He said it was just some of your old college clutter. But I saw it and I thought it was... charming. You're quite talented. All these drawings of him. It's very sweet. A little obsessive, maybe."

She opened it, her eyes scanning a page. My hands clenched into fists under the table. She was looking at my work, my private thoughts, my secret shame, and dissecting it with a surgeon's cold precision.

"He told me you two were having some trouble," she continued, her gaze full of fake sympathy. "He feels so trapped. He said he only married you because he was lonely after I left, and you were... available. And you tried so hard to be what he wanted. He said he felt sorry for you."

Every word was a carefully aimed dart, designed to inflict maximum pain. She wasn't just Liam's lover, she was his accomplice. They had probably laughed about it together, laughed at the pathetic wife trying so desperately to look like the woman he really loved.

"I want my book back, Sarah," I said, my voice low and tight.

"Of course," she said, her smile widening. But she didn't hand it over. Instead, she flipped to the last few pages, where my most ambitious sculpture designs were. "These are interesting. But you don't do this anymore, do you? Liam said he hated all that mess. The clay, the dust. He said it was... unladylike."

That was it. A white-hot rage, an emotion I hadn't felt in years, surged through me. This woman, this original to my copy, was sitting here with my past, my dreams, in her hands, and mocking me with Liam's own dismissive words.

"Give it to me," I said, reaching across the table for the book.

Her hand shot out and covered it. "I don't think so."

Her grip was surprisingly strong. I pulled, and she pulled back. The book was caught between us. For a moment, we were locked in a silent, vicious struggle.

"Let go," I hissed.

Suddenly, the brittle leather binding tore. The book split in two, pages scattering across the table and floor. A gasp went through the quiet cafe.

At that exact moment, Liam burst through the door. He must have been waiting outside. His eyes darted from me to Sarah, and then to the ruined sketchbook.

"Sarah! Are you alright?" he rushed to her side, completely ignoring me.

"She attacked me, Liam!" Sarah cried, her eyes filling with tears. She held up her hand, where a tiny, almost invisible scratch now showed. "She's crazy!"

In my fury, I hadn't noticed. As the book tore, I had stumbled backward, my chair tipping. I had put my hand out to catch myself, and it had slammed against the sharp corner of the table. A searing pain shot up my arm. I looked down. My wrist was already swelling, turning a sickening shade of purple. It was bent at an unnatural angle.

"Liam," I whispered, cradling my arm. "I think... I think it's broken."

He glanced at me, his eyes cold and annoyed. "Stop being so dramatic, Eleanor. It's just a sprain."

He then turned his full attention back to Sarah, fussing over her hand, his voice full of a tender concern that made my stomach heave. "Let me see, baby. Does it hurt? We should get that looked at."

He helped her up, his arm around her waist, and led her out of the cafe without a single backward glance. He left me there, on the floor, surrounded by the torn pages of my past, with a broken wrist and a shattered heart. The pain in my arm was immense, but it was nothing compared to the agony of being so completely and utterly abandoned. I sat there, amidst the stares of strangers, and for the first time in five years, I let the tears fall.

I managed to get a taxi to the emergency room by myself. The admitting nurse looked at my wrist and winced. "That looks bad, honey. Who's with you?"

"No one," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I'm alone."

Later, as a doctor was setting the bone in my wrist, a process that involved a horrifying crunch and a wave of agony that made me see stars, a nurse came in.

"Your husband called," she said, looking at her chart. "He wanted an update on Sarah Jenkins. He said she was the one who was assaulted? He seemed very worried about her."

I just stared at her, the fresh plaster on my arm feeling cold and heavy. He hadn't called to check on me, his wife with a broken bone. He had called to check on the woman with a scratch. The cruelty of it was so absolute, so breathtaking, it was almost clarifying. There was nothing left to salvage. There was nothing left to hope for. He wasn't just neglectful, he wasn't just unfaithful. He was a monster. And I had given him the best years of my life.