Chapter 3

"What?" Sarah's voice was a choked whisper of disbelief. "A sprained ankle? He called in the best doctors in the state for a sprained ankle while you were... while you were dying?"

She paced the small hospital room like a caged animal. "That's not just neglect, Livia. That's monstrous. It doesn't make any sense."

But to me, in a strange and horrifying way, it did.

I closed my eyes, and a memory surfaced. Ethan, years ago, when I'd cut my hand open while cooking. It wasn't a bad cut, but he'd gone pale. He' d wrapped it with frantic, gentle hands, drove me to the emergency room himself, and refused to leave my side until the doctor stitched me up. He'd held my other hand the whole time, telling me it was okay, that he was there. He treated a minor cut like a mortal wound. Because it was me.

Now, I had a crushed spine and he'd assigned me a rookie.

Because it wasn't about the injury. It was about the person. In the story that was now playing out, Chloe was the precious, fragile heroine. Her minor pain outweighed my life-threatening injuries. The plot demanded that all resources, all attention, be focused on her. I was the obstacle, the tragic plot device. My suffering was only important in how it served the main narrative-a narrative I was no longer a part of.

The realization didn't come as a thought, but as a physical sensation. A cold wave washed through my chest, so intense it felt like my heart was seizing. The steady beep of the monitor beside me sped up, becoming a frantic, high-pitched alarm.

The door flew open. A nurse and a young doctor rushed in. "Her heart rate is spiking! V-tach!"

"What's happening?" Sarah yelled, backing away as they surrounded my bed.

"Her body's under too much stress. The emotional shock is causing a cardiac event," the young doctor said, his face grim. He looked barely out of his twenties, but his eyes were focused. "We need to get her to the OR. Now! The internal bleeding must be worse than we thought."

They were moving me, the bed rattling down the hallway. The ceiling lights blurred into a white streak above me. The pain, which had been a dull, heavy ache, sharpened into a thousand burning points. It felt like my body was tearing itself apart from the inside.

"Ms. Reed? Olivia? Can you hear me?" The young doctor's face appeared above me. "We're taking you back to surgery. Just hang on. You're a fighter."

He was trying to be kind, his voice a small island of calm in a sea of pain and panic. It was a kindness I hadn't received from my own husband.

The next few hours were a blur of pain, shouted medical terms, and the feeling of being on the edge of a cliff. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I heard a nurse say my pressure was dropping. At one point, I heard the doctor say, "We're losing her." They sent a nurse out to tell Sarah they'd issued a critical condition notice. Then another.

When I finally woke up for the second time, the world was quieter. The frantic beeping was gone, replaced by a slower, more stable rhythm.

Sarah was there, looking like she had aged ten years. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice thick. "You really scared me."

I managed a weak smile. My whole body felt like one giant, throbbing bruise. I wanted to ask. The question was a burning coal in my throat. Did he come? Did he even ask?

But I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.

No. I wouldn't ask. I wouldn't give him that power over me anymore. I knew the answer. The script was clear. The male lead doesn't visit the ex-wife on her deathbed when the true love is down the hall with a sore foot.

In the quiet of that sterile room, with the hum of the machines as my only company besides my friend, I let the last ember of hope for us die. It was over. I was going to end this.