Three million dollars. My father's surgery money.
Michael turned and saw me standing in the doorway. The color drained from his face.
He rushed over, grabbed my arm, his voice frantic.
"Lucretia, no, it's not what it looks like!"
I ignored him and reached for the thick stack of medical records in his hand.
Michael looked like he was about to cry. He wanted to snatch them back but didn't dare.
I turned the pages one by one.
The date of Edith Walker's first embryo transfer was printed there in black and white.
Five years ago today.
The same day I received my third critical condition notice in the ICU.
So while Jesse had been sobbing outside the operating room, begging doctors to save me, he'd also been calmly arranging for another woman to carry his child.
The sheer absurdity of it washed over me like a wave.
I closed my eyes, handed the records back to Michael, and walked away.
Michael chased after me and blocked my path.
His face was flushed red as he scrambled to explain.
"Lucretia, listen to me! Back then, what that professor did to you damaged your uterus. The doctors said you'd never be able to have children!"
"Jesse was afraid it would break you, and even more afraid his family would pressure you over it. So he told everyone the problem was his!"
"But his mother's dying wish was to hold a grandchild! He didn't have a choice!"
Michael's voice cracked. He raised his hand and swore to me with every ounce of conviction he had.
"I promise you, there is nothing between Jesse and Edith. Nothing physical ever crossed the line!"
"He has always been faithful to you!"
Faithful.
The word turned my stomach.
That kind of faithfulness, I didn't want any part of.
I pushed past Michael and went home.
Every corner was saturated with Jesse's presence. And with his lies.
I opened the closet and started packing.
At the very bottom, my fingers brushed against a box.
Inside was a white dress shirt, stiff with dark, rust-colored bloodstains.
Jesse's.
Five years ago, that monster of a professor had cornered me in his office. Jesse burst in like a man possessed.
He beat the professor until bones cracked, and took five knife wounds himself. He nearly died.
I'd kept this shirt all these years, a reminder that he had once loved me enough to die for me.
Now it just looked like a joke.
My phone rang, cutting through the silence. Jesse.
His voice was brimming with excitement.
"Lucretia! The investor roadshow was a massive success! We landed the biggest deal yet!"
"I'm reaching out to specialists overseas right away. Your dad's surgery is going to happen!"
I listened to the triumph pouring through the speaker and let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
Then I hung up without saying a word.
The phone slipped from my hand. The screen stayed lit, and a livestream notification popped up.
The profile picture showed a woman's side profile. I would have recognized that face anywhere. Edith Walker.
Something compelled me to tap on it.
The account was called "Edith & A's Secret Garden." Five years of hidden love between her and a man, documented for the world to see.
No faces shown directly, but the details were everywhere.
In one photo, the watch on the man's wrist was the anniversary gift I'd given Jesse.
In one video, the man's low, quiet laugh was the same one I'd fallen asleep to for five years.
Hundreds of thousands of followers flooded the comments, gushing about their fairy-tale romance.
So a man who spent nearly every waking hour by my side had still found the time to build another love story, one blessed and celebrated by strangers.
I was about to swipe away when Edith's voice drifted out from the livestream.
