I adjusted the tiny flesh-colored dial behind my ear. The volume crackled to life, picking up the rustle of fabric.
"I will be late tonight," Dylan announced from the walk-in closet. He didn't bother facing me. He thought I couldn't hear him from the bedroom.
I walked to the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Did you say something?" I asked loudly, pointing to my ear.
He sighed, turning around. He exaggerated his lip movements, treating me like a toddler. "Work. Late."
"Another merger meeting?" I asked, keeping my tone light.
"Yes." He shoved his phone into his suit pocket. "Do not wait up for me."
"I have my final check-up at the clinic today," I told him. "Dr. Evans wants to discuss the last stage of my recovery."
"Good luck with that," he muttered, brushing past me. He didn't ask what the last stage meant. He didn't care.
"Will you come with me?" I asked, grabbing his sleeve.
He yanked his arm away. "I just told you I have work, Violet. I do not have time to sit in a waiting room."
"Right. Work."
"Do not give me that attitude," he snapped. "I pay for those appointments. The least you can do is go by yourself."
He walked out the front door. I listened to the heavy thud of the wood shutting. The silence in the apartment felt suffocating. He was going to see her. I knew it.
***
Dr. Evans tapped his pen against my chart. "Your neural responses are incredible, Violet. You are fully capable of navigating without the aids now."
"I want to keep them a little longer," I said.
"There is no medical need."
"It is for my peace of mind," I insisted. "I need to be sure."
He nodded slowly. "Very well. But you are healed. You have your life back."
"Thank you, Doctor."
I left his office, clutching my purse. I didn't have my life back. I had a front-row seat to a nightmare.
I turned the corner toward the pharmacy to pick up some vitamins. A burst of childish laughter echoed down the corridor.
I glanced up. My blood turned to ice.
A man stood at the pediatric registration desk. Broad shoulders, custom tailored navy suit. Dylan.
He held a little boy in his arms. The child looked about three years old, with messy brown curls and chubby cheeks. Dylan bounced him gently on his hip, a soft, genuine smile spreading across his face.
I had never seen him look like that. Not at me. Not at anyone.
"Daddy, juice," the boy whined, tugging at Dylan's expensive silk tie.
"In a minute, buddy," Dylan murmured. He kissed the boy's forehead. "Let me finish these forms, okay?"
Daddy.
The word echoed in my skull. The floor seemed to vanish beneath my feet. I gripped the edge of a nearby trash can to keep from falling.
A three-year-old boy.
My accident was exactly three years ago. The timeline clicked into place with sickening clarity. He hadn't just cheated. He had built an entire family while I was recovering from the injuries I sustained saving his life.
I forced my legs to move. I marched down the linoleum corridor, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
"Dylan."
He flinched. The clipboard slipped from his hand, crashing onto the counter. Papers scattered everywhere.
He whipped his head around. His face drained of color. "Violet."
He immediately took a step backward, shielding the boy with his body.
"Who is this?" I asked. My voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else.
Dylan refused to meet my eyes. He fixed his gaze on the exit sign above my head. "What are you doing here?"
"My appointment," I replied. "Who is that child?"
"It is not what you think," he stammered, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"He called you Daddy."
"You misheard," Dylan shot back. His tone turned defensive, sharp. "Your hearing is still bad. You are confused."
"I heard him perfectly!" I shouted, stepping closer.
"Keep your voice down," a woman snapped from behind me.
I spun around.
Nancy marched down the hall, clutching a plastic juice bottle. She wore a tight red dress, completely out of place in a pediatric ward.
She brushed past me and snatched the boy from Dylan's arms.
"Mommy!" the toddler cheered, reaching for the bottle.
Nancy kissed his cheek, then shot me a withering glare. "Violet, why are you screaming in a hospital? You are scaring people."
"Why is my fiancé holding your son?" I demanded, my hands balling into fists. "Why did he call him Daddy?"
Nancy let out a loud, mocking laugh. "He is my friend's kid. Dylan is just his godfather. He calls all my male friends Daddy. He does not know any better."
She turned to Dylan, patting his chest. "Right, Mr. Miller?"
Dylan stared at his shoes. "Yes. I was just helping out with the paperwork."
"You are lying," I said, my voice trembling. "Both of you."
"You are being hysterical, Violet," Nancy scolded. Her voice dripped with fake sympathy. "Your disability is making you paranoid. You always overreact. You need to calm down."
"I am not paranoid!" I lunged forward, grabbing Dylan's arm. "Look at me! Tell me the truth!"
Dylan yanked his arm away as if I had burned him. "Get off me, Violet. You are making a scene."
"Tell me!" I screamed.
The little boy scowled at me. He wiggled out of Nancy's grip and dropped to the floor.
He ran straight at me.
"Bad woman!" the toddler shrieked.
He shoved his small hands hard against my knees.
Caught off guard, my ankles twisted. I stumbled backward, my heels catching on each other.
I crashed onto the hard tiles. Pain shot up my spine, radiating through my shoulders.
"Hey!" I gasped, clutching my hip.
I looked up, expecting a hand. Expecting an apology.
Dylan stood two feet away. He didn't reach out. He didn't scold the child. He just turned his head, refusing to look at me on the ground. His silence was louder than any confession.
"Do not scare him," Nancy ordered sharply. She scooped the boy back up, shielding him from me.
"He pushed me," I whispered, staring at Dylan. "Your son just pushed me."
"He is just a kid," Dylan muttered, still looking at the wall. "Get up, Violet. People are staring."
I stared at Nancy from the cold floor. A tiny, triumphant smile flashed across her red lips. She had won, and she wanted me to know it.
I scrambled to my feet. My palms burned from the impact.
"Violet, wait," Dylan said weakly, finally glancing in my direction.
"Do not speak to me." I backed away, shaking my head.
I spun around and ran.
I pushed through the double glass doors, bursting into the cold afternoon air.
My chest heaved. I ran until my lungs burned, until the hospital disappeared behind me.
Dylan had a son. With Nancy. A three-year-old son.
The crash happened three years ago.
I stopped on the sidewalk, wrapping my arms around my stomach.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from an unknown number.
I pulled it out, my fingers trembling.
*He is taking everything from you tomorrow.*
