Chapter 3

Liam scrambled out of the bed, the thin hospital gown doing little to cover him. "Divorce? Evelyn, what are you talking about? You can't be serious! It was one mistake!"

His eyes darted around the semi-private room, landing on Alex, who had just entered to check on the patient in the other bed. Liam' s face twisted with a new, ugly suspicion.

"It's him, isn't it?" Liam snarled, pointing a shaking finger at Alex. "You're leaving me for him! You' ve been cheating on me this whole time!"

The accusation was so absurd, so perfectly aligned with the phone call I'd overheard, that a raw, guttural sound of fury escaped my throat. Before I could think, I lunged forward and slapped him. The crack of my hand against his cheek echoed in the small room. It wasn't a surgeon's calculated move; it was the raw, unrestrained anger of a woman pushed far beyond her limit.

"You dare?" I seethed, my voice trembling with rage. "You dare stand there, after what you did, and accuse me?"

Liam recoiled, holding his cheek, his eyes wide with shock. A nurse, drawn by the noise, peered into the room. The public nature of the confrontation was mortifying, but I was past caring.

"Let's take this to a more private setting," Alex said calmly, stepping between us. He gently guided me toward an empty consultation room across the hall, his presence a solid barrier between me and the man who was rapidly becoming a stranger.

Inside the small, windowless room, I finally let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The professional mask I wore was cracking at the seams.

"I already spoke to my lawyer," I told Liam, who had followed us in, his face a mask of wounded pride. "He'll be serving you with the papers tomorrow. The house is in my name. I suggest you find somewhere else to stay. Your things will be packed and sent to your studio."

"No," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm not signing anything. We're married, Evelyn. For better or for worse. You don't just throw ten years away because of one stupid night." He was trying to sound reasonable, but there was a hard, stubborn set to his jaw. He still thought he could control this.

"This wasn't one night, Liam. The ring you gave that girl? I saw it in Santa Fe five years ago. And the vasectomy? Did you think I'd never find out you faked it?" My voice was low and dangerous. "This is over."

I turned and walked out, leaving him standing there. I couldn't be in the same room with him for another second.

The next day, true to his delusional nature, a massive bouquet of roses arrived at my office. The card read: 'For my one and only. Happy Anniversary. I love you forever. - L.' Along with the flowers was a decadent chocolate cake from our favorite bakery. The absurdity of the gesture, the complete refusal to acknowledge the reality of our situation, was staggering. It wasn't an apology; it was a power move, a declaration that he could erase his betrayal with a grand, romantic gesture.

I took the cake and the flowers and walked them directly to the hospital's main trash receptacle, dumping them in without a second thought. The thorns on the rose stems scraped my hands, a small, satisfying sting.

For the rest of the week, Liam played a game of avoidance. He didn't come home. He didn't answer my calls or texts. He was giving me the "silent treatment," a juvenile tactic he'd used before when he felt I was being unreasonable. He thought if he ignored the problem, I would eventually give in, worn down by his absence and the weight of our shared history. He had no idea how wrong he was. The silence didn't wear me down; it solidified my resolve.

Finally, I decided to force the issue. If he wouldn't face me, I would go to him. I drove to his downtown studio, the divorce papers from my lawyer sitting on the passenger seat. The studio was his sanctuary, a cavernous loft filled with his equipment, his prints, and the ghosts of his travels.

The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside. The space was dimly lit, but the walls were covered with his work. Striking, visceral images from war zones, portraits of people whose lives were torn apart by conflict. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw a new exhibit taking up the main wall.

It was a series of large, intimate portraits. The subject was a woman, sleeping. Her face was turned to the side, her hair fanned out on a pillow, her bare shoulder exposed in the soft morning light. The photos were beautiful, artistic, and deeply personal.

And the woman was me.

I froze, my blood turning to ice. I had never seen these photos before. I had never posed for them. He had taken them while I slept, without my knowledge, without my consent. And now, he had them displayed here, in his studio, for anyone to see. The shock was profound, a violation so deep it stole the air from my lungs.