Chapter 2

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating. David thought my mother had used him? The woman who treated him like her own son? The absurdity of it was a fresh wave of pain.

"You're wrong," I choked out, my voice a rasp. "My mother... she was kind. She chose you because she thought you were a good person, someone who could..."

"Who could what? Be your loyal dog?" he spat, his grip tightening for a second before he released me abruptly. I slumped against the wall, gasping for air.

"Five years, Chloe," I whispered, my voice trembling with a frustration that had been building for half a decade. "Five years I've tried to tell you, tried to explain. Why won't you ever believe me? Why?"

For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. A memory, perhaps, of a time before all this bitterness, a time when I would wait up for him with a warm meal, a time when my love was a simple, hopeful thing.

He looked away, his jaw tight. "Don't play the victim, Chloe. It doesn't suit you." He spoke as if he were granting me a favor, as if my pain was an inconvenience he had to manage.

He reached out, his hand moving toward my face, not with gentleness, but with a possessive authority. "We're not getting a divorce. You're Mrs. Hayes. That' s final."

I flinched away from his touch. "Don't touch me," I seethed. "You disgust me."

A cold smirk touched his lips. "Disgusted? You weren't disgusted that night five years ago, were you?"

The door rattled. Samantha's voice, filled with fake concern, called out from the other side. "David? Is everything okay? Did she hurt you?"

David's entire posture changed. He instantly straightened his suit, smoothed his hair, and pushed me aside as if I were a piece of furniture. He walked to the door, his back to me, the picture of composure.

He unlocked the door and left without a single glance back. He chose her. Again. As he always would.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. It was over. It was truly, finally over.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers shaking as I found the number. It was a number my mother had given me years ago, for emergencies. A man named Benjamin Carter, her most trusted lawyer and friend.

He answered on the first ring. "Miss Miller?"

"Uncle Ben," I said, my voice breaking. "It's Chloe. I need your help. Mom's shares... I need to take them back."

There was a pause on the other end, then his voice came, firm and reassuring. "Of course, Chloe. I've been waiting for your call. I'll start the process immediately."

Relief washed over me, so potent it almost brought me to my knees. I had an ally. I wasn't alone.

"David Hayes," I whispered to the empty office. "I'm done with you."

That evening, David came home. He was carrying a large bouquet of lilies, their scent filling the silent house. He placed them on the table, a clumsy attempt at a peace offering.

"I know you like flowers," he said, not looking at me.

My heart twisted. Lilies. The one flower I was deathly allergic to. In five years of marriage, he didn't even know that.

"I'm allergic," I said, my voice flat.

He looked up, annoyed. "Don't be difficult, Chloe."

"I'm not being difficult. I'm allergic. They make it hard for me to breathe."

"Just take them," he insisted, his patience wearing thin. He grabbed the bouquet and shoved it toward me. "It's a simple gesture."

As my hand brushed against the petals, my skin immediately started to itch. Red welts began to form on my arm. My throat started to close up, a familiar and terrifying sensation. I dropped the flowers and stumbled back, gasping.

It was only then that he saw the red patches spreading up my arm, the way I was struggling for air. Panic finally flashed in his eyes. He rushed me to the hospital, his face a mask of grim concern.

In the emergency room, as the doctor administered an antihistamine shot, David stood by the bed, looking guilty. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't know."

I turned my face away. I felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. Just a vast, hollow emptiness.

He didn't know. After five years, he didn't know the simplest, most important things about me. He knew Samantha's favorite coffee, her favorite designer, her favorite vacation spot. But he didn't know that lilies could kill me.

He stayed for a little while, an awkward, silent presence in the room. He even brought me a cup of water, his movements clumsy.

But then his phone rang. It was Samantha.

I watched as he walked out into the hallway to take the call. His voice, which had been tight with guilt a moment ago, softened into a gentle murmur.

He came back in a few minutes later. "I have to go. Samantha needs me."

I didn't respond. I just stared at the white ceiling.

He lingered at the door. "Chloe..."

I remained silent. He sighed and left.

The next day, he brought Samantha to visit me. She was clinging to his arm, looking perfectly healthy. She sat in the chair he had occupied, the one he had just vacated for her.

"I heard you had a little accident," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "You really should be more careful."

David fussed over her, pouring her a glass of water, making sure she was comfortable. "Don't tire yourself out," he told her softly.

I remembered how he used to scold me for the smallest things. For staying up too late reading, for eating a second piece of cake. "You need to take care of your health," he would say, his tone sharp and critical.

But with Samantha, everything was different. Her every whim was indulged, her every word was treasured.

I finally understood. It was never about me. It was never about my health or my happiness. It was simply that I was not the one he favored. And only the favored one gets to be reckless.