Not just his wife.
His *patient*.
"Senior Brother!" Zoe grabbed his arm. "Fiona has a heart condition! How could you hit her?"
*Bravo.* But I was done being the audience for this particular melodrama.
I shoved Adrian aside, ignoring the shock frozen on his face, and dragged my suitcase into the elevator.
"Remember to sign the papers, Adrian." The doors began to close. "Don't keep Dr. Preston waiting."
Outside the villa complex, I stood on the curb, shivering in the night air. My fingers brushed my cheek. Tender. Hot.
That was the first time Adrian had ever raised a hand against me.
And he had done it for *her*.
My phone felt heavy in my palm. My thumb hovered over my mother's contact. The screen blurred as tears finally threatened to spill.
No.
My parents were elderly. I couldn't burden them with this wreckage.
I hailed a taxi to an apartment my parents had bought for me before the marriage. Small. Dusty. But safe.
The familiar furnishings wrapped around me like a forgotten embrace. The tension that had coiled around my spine finally loosened.
I collapsed onto the sofa and slept.
The next morning, a violent pounding on the door jolted me upright.
I stumbled to the entrance, heart slamming against my ribs. When I opened it, my parents stood there, faces carved with worry.
"Fiona! Did you and Adrian have a fight?"
My mother's anxious eyes shattered what remained of my composure. I threw myself into her arms, the dam breaking.
"Mom." My voice cracked against her shoulder. "I want a divorce."
My father shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "Fiona... Adrian has treated you like a princess for years. Why this sudden tantrum?"
"Yes," my mother added, stroking my hair but pulling back to study my face. "He's sacrificed so much for you. You need to have a conscience, child."
I pulled away, wiping my eyes. The cold reality washed over me like ice water.
"Dad. Mom. It's Adrian. He's changed. He's... he's with someone else. I don't want him anymore."
My father's expression hardened to stone. "Fiona, all men make mistakes! Besides, Adrian already called us. He explained everything. He and that Dr. Preston were working *for you*."
My mother nodded vigorously. "Exactly. A man like Adrian—with your health condition—where will you find another? You *need* him."
So.
He had gotten to them first.
To the world, Adrian Farley was a saint. A martyr who married a sick woman. I was the lucky one.
I was the *burden*.
My parents didn't give me a choice. They packed me and my luggage into their car and drove straight back to the villa.
Adrian opened the door wearing an apron, looking for all the world like the perfect domestic husband. He took the suitcase from my hand as if nothing had happened.
"Mom, Dad, please. Come in. Sit."
My mother nudged me forward. "Adrian, you're not at work?"
The house was spotless. The aroma of slow-cooked soup drifted from the kitchen.
"I knew you might come by, Mom, so I took the day off." Adrian's smile was gentle, his eyes warm. "Fiona, get slippers for your parents."
The switch was seamless.
Terrifying.
"Mm," I mumbled.
At the dinner table, my parents sang his praises.
"Fiona has a bad temper." My father accepted a bowl of soup from Adrian. "Bear with her, son."
"Dad, Mom, Fiona is wonderful." Adrian placed a choice piece of meat in my bowl. "This was my fault. I didn't consider her feelings enough. It won't happen again."
He was doing it again. Covering everything with a veneer of perfection, making me look like the unreasonable, hysterical wife.
"Fiona."
Under the table, my mother's leg nudged mine. A silent command to apologize. To be *grateful*.
I looked at the three of them—a happy family tableau built on lies.
I set my chopsticks down with a sharp *clack*.
"Drop the act, Adrian."
I met his gaze without blinking.
"Aren't you exhausted?"
