Chapter 4

The day of the gala arrived. Mark left in the early evening, dressed in a sharp tuxedo. He looked impeccable, every inch the celebrated architect. He didn't say where he was going, but I knew. He was going to the gala, and Emily would be on his arm.

I had my own destination. My bags were already in my small car, the last few things I hadn't sent with the movers. My plan was to drive to a small coastal town a few hours away, a place where no one knew my name. A place to start over.

I watched him drive away, his expensive sports car disappearing down the long driveway. A sense of finality washed over me. It was really over.

I got into my own car and started the engine. The journey was quiet. The city lights faded behind me, replaced by the darkness of the open highway. I felt a strange lightness, a sense of freedom I hadn't felt in years. But fate, it seemed, had one last cruel twist in store for me.

A truck, coming from the opposite direction, swerved suddenly into my lane. Its headlights blinded me. I yanked the steering wheel, my tires screeching on the wet pavement from an earlier drizzle. The world spun violently, a chaotic blur of metal and glass. Then, everything went black.

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the muted beeping of a machine. My head throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. A white cast encased my left arm. I was in a hospital.

A nurse came in and smiled gently. "You' re awake. You were in a nasty accident. You' re very lucky. Just a broken arm and a concussion."

Lucky. It didn't feel like it.

I was moved to a private room, one arranged and paid for by Mark's assistant, Leo. He had handled everything, efficient and discreet as always. Mark never came.

Days blurred into one another. I lay in the sterile white room, staring at the ceiling. The only visitors were Olivia, who came every day with food and magazines, and the servants from the mansion, who brought changes of clothes and toiletries.

One afternoon, two of the younger maids, Mary and Clara, were tidying up my room, thinking I was asleep.

"It' s such a shame," Mary whispered. "She' s been here for three days, and Mr. Davis hasn' t visited once."

"He' s been too busy with Miss Carter," Clara replied, her voice filled with disapproval. "Her father' s condition worsened, and he' s been at her side day and night. Leo told me Mr. Davis even missed the gala to stay with her at the hospital."

"He should be here," Mary insisted. "Mrs. Davis is his wife. She was in a car accident."

Their hushed conversation confirmed what I already knew. Even with me lying injured in a hospital bed, Emily was his priority. My accident was just another inconvenience for him.

Lying there, I let my mind drift back. I remembered all the things I had done for him, the small, unnoticed acts of love. I remembered learning to cook his favorite meals, meals he ate without comment. I remembered redecorating his study to his exact tastes, a project he never acknowledged. I remembered waiting up for him night after night, only for him to walk past me as if I were part of the furniture. I had given him three years of my life, and in return, I got nothing but polite indifference.

The last flicker of foolish hope died in that hospital room. There was no pain, no anger anymore. Only a profound, weary sense of release. He would never change. And I was finally done trying to make him.

On the fifth day, he finally appeared. He stood in the doorway, looking tired and disheveled. He was still wearing the same suit he' d worn the night of the gala.

"Sarah," he said, his voice hoarse. "Leo just told me the extent of your injuries. I' m sorry. I was... preoccupied."

I looked at him, at the man who was my husband. I felt nothing.

"Preoccupied," I repeated, my voice flat. I gave a small, humorless smile. "Yes, I heard. I hope Emily' s father is feeling better."

My words were sharp, laced with an irony that seemed to cut through his exhaustion. He flinched, a look of surprise crossing his face. I had never spoken to him like that before.

"How did you know about that?" he asked, taking a step into the room.

"This is your house, Mark. The walls have ears," I said, gesturing vaguely at the room he paid for. "And soon, it won't be my concern at all. Once I' m discharged, I' ll be gone for good. You' ll have your freedom."

He stared at me, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Gone for good? What are you talking about?"

He looked so lost, so completely clueless, that it was almost comical. He had no idea what I had been planning, no idea that I had already left him in my heart.

Just then, Olivia walked in, carrying a basket of fruit. She stopped short when she saw Mark.

"Oh," she said, her eyes flicking between the two of us.

Mark' s gaze shifted to her, a dawning suspicion in his eyes. He must have remembered Olivia was the friend I was supposedly visiting on the night of the gala.

From outside the partially open door, I heard his assistant, Leo, speaking quietly on the phone. "Yes, he' s in with Mrs. Davis now... No, I haven' t told him about the divorce papers yet. I thought it was best to wait."

Mark' s head snapped toward the door. He had heard it. The word hung in the air between us, heavy and explosive. Divorce.

He turned back to me, his eyes wide with disbelief and a sudden, rising anger. "Divorce?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "What the hell is he talking about, Sarah?"