Chapter 3

Chloe Burns POV:

The phone rang at ten o'clock that night, slicing through the quiet of the new hospital room. Sterling Medical Center was a world away from the familiar, chaotic halls of Jermey' s hospital. It was calm, private, and reassuringly expensive.

I glanced at the caller ID. Jermey.

I let it ring three times before answering.

"Where is she?" His voice was not a question. It was an accusation, sharp and cold.

"She's fine," I said, stepping out into the hushed corridor. "She's sleeping."

"I went to her room. It was empty. The nurses said you had her transferred. What the hell are you doing, Chloe?" he demanded, his voice tight with fury. "Are you insane? You moved her without my authorization? I'm her primary physician!"

"You were," I corrected him calmly. "As of this morning, you are no longer involved in her care."

"You can't do that! I'm the best. Sterling is good, but I'm the one who knows her case inside and out," he snarled. "Is this about this morning? Are you really willing to risk your mother's health to punish me?"

The audacity of it, the sheer, unadulterated narcissism, left me momentarily speechless. He was trying to gaslight me, to frame my act of self-preservation as a childish tantrum.

"My mother's health is the only reason I'm doing this," I said, my voice like ice. "She needs a doctor who is fully present. Not one who's on call for another family."

"That's not fair! Fronia is a sick woman!"

"So is my mother," I shot back. "But her illness isn't a performance piece."

A heavy silence hung on the line. Then, his voice dropped, turning menacing. "I'm not coming home tonight, Chloe. I'm staying with them. Fronia is very shaken up."

It was a threat. A test. He expected me to beg, to plead, to apologize for upsetting his new, fragile dependents.

"Fine," I said.

The silence on the other end was different this time. It was the sound of a man whose script had been thrown out the window. "Fine?" he repeated, bewildered.

"Yes, Jermey. Fine. Stay there. In fact, stay there as long as you like," I said. Then I hung up.

My hand was trembling, but not from fear. It was from the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of liberation.

A minute later, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. But I knew who it was. Karina.

Chloe, I'm so sorry if I've caused any trouble between you and Jermey. He's just such a compassionate man, and my mother relies on him so much. It's hard for him to say no when someone is in need. He's a rare kind of man, the kind every woman wants. I'll take good care of him tonight. He's exhausted.

It was a masterclass in manipulation. The faux apology, the praise of Jermey's "compassion," the subtle dig that he was a prize she had won. It was a declaration of ownership.

I didn't reply. I just stared at the message, a bitter taste in my mouth. This was their pattern. Fronia would have a "crisis," Karina would make the frantic call, and Jermey would rush to the rescue. Afterwards, there would be the texts, the "apologies," the constant reminders of how much they "needed" him. He was their knight in shining armor, and my own needs, my mother's needs, were just inconvenient distractions.

I deleted the message and blocked the number.

The phone rang again. Jermey.

I sighed and answered.

"Did you just block Karina's number?" he demanded, his voice incredulous.

The sound of faint, theatrical sobbing came from his background. Fronia.

"Jermey, I'm tired," I said, my patience worn thin. "I'm with my mother, who just had open-heart surgery. I don't have the energy for this drama."

"Drama?" he scoffed. "Fronia is terrified! She thinks you hate her! And Karina is worried sick. After everything I did today, after I saved her mother's life, this is how you repay me? By being cold and cruel? Where is your compassion, Chloe? I'm so disappointed in you."

Disappointed. In me.

The words hung in the air, so absurd, so colossally unjust, that all I could do was laugh. It was a hollow, broken sound.

"You're disappointed in me?" I finally managed to say. "That's rich, Jermey. That is truly rich."

I didn't wait for a reply. I hung up the phone and turned it off.

My fingertips were cold, a chill spreading up my arms. For years, I had been the compassionate one. The understanding wife. The one who packed his bag for late-night "emergencies" at the Farmers' house. The one who smiled politely when Fronia would call him "my Jermey" in front of me. The one who accepted his excuses and his divided attention, all in the name of his "good heart."

But his heart wasn't good. It was just needy. It craved adoration, and the Farmers fed that need with a bottomless supply of flattery and manufactured crises.

I slid back into the room and sat in the chair beside my mother's bed. Her breathing was even, her face relaxed in sleep. She was safe. She was cared for. And for the first time in a very long time, so was I. The disappointment was all his.