Chapter 5

The sterile smell of antiseptic was the first thing that greeted Charlotte when she woke up. Hospital again. It was becoming a depressingly familiar place.

Franklin was by her bedside, his face etched with a practiced look of concern.

"Marmalade," she croaked, the word tearing from her raw throat. "Where is he?"

Franklin' s expression was carefully neutral. "He's been taken care of, Charlotte. It was for the best."

"What does that mean?" she demanded, grabbing his arm, her voice rising with hysteria. "What did you do to him?"

"He's gone," Franklin said flatly. "Don't worry, I'll buy you a new one. A kitten. Any breed you want."

A new one. As if Marmalade was a broken toy that could be easily replaced. The cat he had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. The cat he had held up to her face, purring, and declared, "Now we're a family of three." The cat whose only crime was being loved by her.

A sharp, unbearable pain lanced through Charlotte's chest. She couldn't breathe. Tears of pure, hot agony streamed from her eyes. He had killed a part of her, a living, breathing part of her family, all to appease the whims of a manipulative liar.

"How could you?" she whispered, the tears choking her. "How could you?"

Franklin, ever the pragmatist, saw her tears not as a sign of grief but as an inconvenience. He picked up a bowl of congee from the bedside table. "You need to eat," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You've been out for a day."

He brought a spoonful to her lips. The sight of him, so calm, so unaffected after what he had done, made her stomach churn.

"Get away from me," she hissed, her grief turning to violent revulsion.

"Charlotte, stop it," he said, his voice hardening with impatience.

"I said get away!" She slapped the spoon away from her face. The bowl clattered to the floor, splattering hot congee across the white tiles and his expensive shoes.

Franklin's face darkened. For a second, she saw the mask slip, revealing the raw anger and frustration beneath. "Why do you have to be so difficult?" he snarled. "Why can't you just be understanding for once? Hayley is the one who is sick! She's the one who is suffering! All you do is cause trouble!"

The words hit her with the force of a physical blow. In his eyes, she was the problem. Her pain, her grief, her refusal to accept his betrayals quietly-it was all an inconvenience to him and his grand, tragic love affair.

Just then, Hayley appeared in the doorway, looking pale and holding a bouquet of flowers. "Franklin? Is everything alright? I heard shouting." She looked at the mess on the floor, then at Charlotte, her eyes wide with faux concern. "Oh, Charlotte, are you okay? I'm so sorry about your cat. I told Franklin not to be so hasty..."

Franklin's anger melted away the moment he saw her. "It's okay, Hayley. It's not your fault. Charlotte's just... upset."

Hayley glided into the room. "I'm going on a trip," she announced, her voice soft. "The doctors said my time is short, and I want to see the world. Paris, Rome, the cherry blossoms in Japan... I want to see it all before I go." She looked at Franklin, her eyes pleading. "And I want you to come with me, Franklin. Please."

Charlotte watched as Franklin hesitated for the briefest of moments. He glanced at Charlotte, a flicker of duty warring with his desire.

Hayley, sensing his hesitation, played her trump card. "Charlotte should come too," she suggested, her voice dripping with false magnanimity. "It'll be a chance for all of us to... bond. To make some final, happy memories together."

It was a cruel, brilliant move. It was not an invitation; it was a punishment. A rolling, public display of her victory and Charlotte's defeat.

And Franklin, the fool, fell for it completely. "That's a wonderful idea," he said, his face lighting up. "We'll all go together." He turned to Charlotte, his tone now one of command. "You're coming with us."

"No," Charlotte said, her voice a dead monotone.

"You are," he insisted, grabbing her arm again. "You need a change of scenery. It will be good for you."

It was not a request. He forced her out of the hospital, forced her onto his private jet, and forced her to watch as he and Hayley played out their love story across continents.

She sat in the back of the car as they drove through Paris, watching as Franklin pointed out landmarks to Hayley. She sat alone at a separate table in Rome while they shared a plate of pasta, laughing and holding hands.

In the car, on the way to a scenic viewpoint, Franklin fussed over Hayley, handing her a bottle of water and her medication. He didn't offer Charlotte so much as a glance. He and Hayley whispered and giggled, sharing inside jokes. He even changed the car' s GPS voice from the default American accent to a British one, because Hayley said it sounded "more sophisticated." It was a small thing, but it felt like another piece of Charlotte's world being casually overwritten.

She sat in the back seat, a prisoner in their romantic comedy, her heart a block of ice. He had told her it was a "fleeting attraction," a "momentary thing." What a liar. He was head over heels in love. Every tender look, every gentle touch, every shared laugh was a testament to the depth of his feelings for Hayley. The love he claimed to have for Charlotte was nothing but a hollow, convenient lie he told himself to feel better. It was the ultimate insult.