Chapter 3

The fluorescent lights of the hospital room were harsh and unforgiving. I was alive, no thanks to my husband. The paramedics had arrived just in time, responding to my own choked 911 call.

My throat was raw, and my body ached from the violent reaction. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the gaping wound in my soul. He had left me. He had chosen her.

I picked up my phone, my hand still slightly swollen, and tried to call him. The first time, it rang and rang before going to voicemail. The second time, someone picked up.

"Hello?" It was Ivana' s voice, sickly sweet.

A cold rage, so pure and sharp it almost made me gasp, surged through me.

"Where is Corbett?" I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

"Oh, Jenna, you' re awake!" she chirped. "Corbett is just so worried about me. The stress of your... episode... really set my recovery back. He' s sleeping now. He was up all night taking care of me."

I didn' t say anything. I just squeezed the phone, my knuckles turning white.

"You really should be more careful, you know," Ivana continued, her voice dripping with false concern. "It' s so selfish to put everyone through that. Corbett was terrified."

I hung up. I couldn' t listen to another word. I threw the phone across the room, and it shattered against the wall. The action did nothing to quell the storm inside me. I yanked the IV out of my arm, ignoring the sharp sting and the bead of blood that welled up. I had to get out of there.

I was signing my own discharge papers, against medical advice, when he finally showed up.

Corbett rushed into the room, his face a mess of concern. "Jenna! What are you doing? You' re not well enough to leave."

He tried to hug me, but I flinched away from his touch. His arms dropped to his sides, and he looked lost.

"Why didn' t you answer your phone?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion.

"I... my phone was on silent. I was with Ivana, she..."

"I know where you were," I cut him off. "She told me. She also told me how selfish I was to have an allergic reaction."

His face paled. "Jenna, she doesn' t mean it. She' s just..."

"Fragile," I finished for him. "I know."

Just then, his phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the tense silence. He glanced at the screen. The caller ID read "Ivana' s Nurse."

He looked at me, his eyes pleading. "I have to take this."

He answered, and his entire demeanor shifted. "What? She pulled out her stitches? Is she okay? I' ll be right there."

He hung up and turned to me, his face etched with worry. "I have to go. Ivana tried to hurt herself."

He was choosing her again. Even after she' d nearly killed me and he had abandoned me, he was still choosing her. The pattern was so predictable it was almost boring.

"I' ll come right back, Jen," he promised, his hand on the doorknob. "I swear. We' ll sort this out."

"Don' t bother," I said.

He hesitated for a second, then rushed out of the room, leaving me alone once more.

The next few days were a blur of media headlines. Corbett Ewing was lauded as a hero, a devoted guardian to his tragic sister-in-law. There were pictures of him taking her on a shopping spree to cheer her up. Pictures of them throwing coins into the fountain at Lincoln Center, a place he had once taken me on our first anniversary. Pictures of him holding her hand as they walked through Central Park. He was re-creating my memories with her.

And me? I was the villain. The cruel, jealous wife who couldn' t stand the sight of her husband' s charity. The tabloids tore me apart.

Corbett never came back to the hospital. He sent his assistant to handle my discharge and drive me home.

When I walked back into the penthouse, he was waiting for me. He had filled the living room with my favorite flowers, white gardenias. He had a private chef making my favorite meal. He was trying to apologize without ever saying the words.

He pulled me into an embrace, burying his face in my hair. "I missed you, Jen. The house felt so empty without you."

His touch felt like a violation. I stood stiffly in his arms.

He pulled back, searching my face. "Let me take care of you. Let me make it up to you."

He led me to the dining table, pulling out my chair. He served me himself, his movements full of a practiced, empty tenderness.

As he sat down, he reached across the table and took my hand. "I' ve been thinking. I think it' s time for Ivana to find her own place."

I looked at him, surprised. Was this it? Was he finally waking up?

"But," he continued, his grip tightening on my hand, "she' s having a hard time. The memories of Elenor are so strong in her family' s old apartment. She was wondering... she wants to redecorate it, to make it new. She needs some inspiration."

My heart sank. I knew what was coming.

"She loves your perfume organ," he said, his eyes avoiding mine. "She thinks it' s beautiful. She wants to use it as a centerpiece in her new design studio. Just for a little while. To... inspire her."

He wanted to give her my father' s last gift to me. The most precious thing I owned.

"No," I said, my voice quiet but firm.

"Jenna, please," he pleaded. "It would mean so much to her. It would help her heal. It' s the last step. After this, she' ll move out, and we can be us again."

"I said no, Corbett."

He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "It' s just a desk, Jenna! Why are you being so difficult? After everything I do for her, for my promise to Elenor, you can' t do this one small thing?"

"It' s not just a desk," I said, my voice rising. "It was my father' s."

"And Elenor was my future!" he shot back, his face twisting in anguish. "I owe her this! I owe her everything!"

The argument was pointless. I was tired. So incredibly tired.

"Fine," I said, the word tasting like poison. "Do whatever you want."

I stood up and walked away, leaving him standing there amidst the gardenias and the gourmet food. I went to my studio, my sanctuary.

Later that night, I was awakened by a noise from downstairs. A scraping, dragging sound.

I crept out of my room and looked down the grand staircase.

Ivana was there, in the main foyer, directing two movers. And with them, my perfume organ. She was standing over it, her hands caressing the dark wood, a triumphant smirk on her face.

Corbett was there too, watching from the doorway, his expression a mixture of guilt and resignation. He saw me standing on the stairs, but he did nothing. He just watched as they carried away the last piece of my heart.