Chapter 3

A wave of cold, quiet rage washed over me, so potent it drowned out the physical pain. I looked at David' s performance of a grieving husband and felt a profound, bottomless disappointment. My mother was in surgery, her life hanging by a thread, because of the dangerous job I took to pay for his fictional illness. And he had watched it happen.

"You were there," I said, my voice flat and hoarse.

He flinched, a flicker of genuine panic in his eyes before he masked it with confusion. "What are you talking about, Sarah? I just got here. I was at home, worried sick."

"I saw you," I repeated, my gaze unwavering. "Across the street. In your car. With her."

The air in the room grew thick with tension. He opened his mouth to deny it again, but a nurse came in, her expression grim. "Mr. Miller? I'm afraid I have some bad news about her mother."

The world stopped. My mother was gone. She had died on the operating table. The kind, loving woman who had brought me soup because she was worried I was cold was dead. And for what? For a lie. For David's sick game.

A sound escaped my throat, a dry, ragged sob of pure agony. The grief was a physical force, hollowing me out completely. David tried to put his arms around me, to offer a comforting embrace.

"Don't touch me," I snarled, shoving him away with a strength I didn't know I possessed.

He recoiled, his face a mixture of shock and feigned hurt. "Sarah, honey, I know you're in pain. We'll get through this together. I promise. I'll take care of everything."

His empty promises were like gasoline on a fire. Just then, the door to my room swung open and Emily sashayed in, carrying a ridiculously expensive bouquet of lilies. Her face was a perfect picture of sorrow, but her eyes were cold and triumphant.

"Oh, Sarah, darling," she cooed, placing the flowers on the nightstand. "I heard about your mother. It's just tragic. David has been beside himself with worry." She shot a look at David, a silent order for him to play his part.

I stared at the lilies, the traditional flower for funerals. The audacity of it stole my breath.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a notification from a social media app. Emily's latest post. My hand shook as I picked it up. It was a photo of her and David, taken years ago, laughing together on a yacht. The caption read: "Some bonds are forever. Thinking of my oldest and dearest friend in his time of need. #TrueLove #ChildhoodSweethearts."

She was publicly staking her claim, even here, in the shadow of my mother's death. She was marking her territory.

David saw the photo over my shoulder and his face darkened with anger. "Emily, what the hell is this?" he hissed, pulling her toward the door. "Now is not the time!"

His anger wasn't for me. It wasn't because she was disrespecting my grief or our marriage. It was because she was being sloppy. She was threatening to expose his carefully constructed lie.

"What?" she whispered back defensively. "I'm just showing support! Everyone thinks you're just friends."

As they argued in hushed, angry tones, two more people walked in. A man and a woman, both dressed in designer clothes that screamed of wealth. They were friends of Emily's.

"Emily, we came as soon as we heard," the woman said, completely ignoring me. She looked me up and down with open disdain. "Is this her? The one David has been stuck with?"

The man chuckled, pulling out a thick money clip. He peeled off a few hundred-dollar bills and tossed them onto my hospital blanket.

"Here," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "For your trouble. Should be enough to cover a funeral for whatever working-class family you came from."

The bills lay on my legs, a vulgar insult on top of my immeasurable loss. The humiliation was suffocating. I was nothing to them. I was a problem to be paid off, an inconvenience in their glamorous lives.

Something inside me snapped. The grief and the shock solidified into a core of ice. I slowly sat up, my eyes locking with the man's.

"Assault, robbery, and accessory to murder," I said, my voice shockingly calm and steady. "And you know, it's amazing what a security camera in a high-end gallery can pick up. Even the sound. I'm sure the police will be very interested in the recording of my husband and his mistress discussing three years of felony fraud just before the 'robbery' happened."

The room went dead silent. Emily's face went pale. Her friend's arrogant smirk vanished. David stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief and a dawning, terrible fear. He had underestimated me. They all had.

He took a step toward me, his voice a low growl. "You're delirious, Sarah. You hit your head. You don't know what you're saying." He was trying to regain control, to paint me as unstable.

I didn't answer. I just held his gaze, letting the silence stretch. I had lost everything. My mother, my husband, my child that would never be. I had nothing left to lose, which meant I had nothing left to fear from them.

David's face twisted in frustration. He was used to me being compliant, emotional, and easy to manipulate. This cold, silent defiance was new.

"Fine," he spat, his voice tight with fury. "You have one day to retract that insane accusation and sign the papers for the apartment sale to cover these new bills. If you don't, I'll make sure everyone knows you're a mentally unstable woman who drove her own mother to her death."

It was an ultimatum. A final threat. But all I heard was the desperate scrambling of a cornered animal.