Broken Hands, Cold Heart

I've been committed to a psychiatric hospital five times. Every single time, it happened right before I was supposed to sign my marriage license.

The first time, I woke up in the private room of a bar with no clothes on.

My fiancé, Eric Henson, found me, wrapped me in his coat, and took me to the hospital.

The second time, I turned up deep in a wilderness preserve, spotted by a group of hikers.

My best friend, Mabel James, climbed two hours up the trail and helped the rescue team carry me back down.

The third time, the fourth time …… every time, I'd lose my memory for a while, and then someone would find me, someone would bring me back.

The fifth time, I came to at the very top of a Ferris wheel at an amusement park.

My brother rushed in, carried me down from the wheel, and put me in the car.

The night they committed me again, I heard voices outside my door.

My brother kept his voice low.

“Eric, you can't give her that drug anymore. Keep dosing her and the nerves in her brain will die off. She'll end up truly gone.”

Eric was quiet for a moment, then let out a sigh.

“That marriage license—I already gave it to someone else.”

“As for signing with Maisie Pruitt, we stall it as long as we can. Next time, I'll come up with another way.”

I opened my eyes, trembling, and sent a message to my parents.

“Dad, Mom, I want to come home.”

1

The voices outside the ward faded further and further away.

I stared into the dark, forcing myself to take in what I'd just heard.

For over a year now, every time I got close to signing the license, some accident or other would happen.

Hospital stay after hospital stay, my body had been ground down weaker and weaker.

And every time, Eric never tired of it—he stayed by my side, soothing me gently.

“It's all right, Maisie. Once you're better, we'll go sign it.”

But it had never once crossed my mind that every one of these so-called accidents had been arranged by Eric himself.

I fished my phone out from under the pillow and sent my parents a message.

“Dad, Mom, I want to come home.”

My mother called back almost at once.

“Maisie, does this mean you've finally come to your senses?”

“Your dad and I told you a long time ago that Eric wasn't right for you. The way he looked at us always made our skin crawl. But we knew—no matter what we said, you wouldn't hear a word of it.”

Hearing my mother's voice after so long, my nose stung.

“I'm sorry, Mom. I should have listened to you both.”

The next day I was discharged and came home. Eric was busy in the kitchen.

After a little while, he carried a bowl of steaming soup over to me.

Then he untied his apron and reached out to ruffle my hair.

“Maisie, try the new soup I made.”

Eric had a beautiful pair of eyes, and the rest of his features were strikingly handsome too.

The first time I ever laid eyes on him, I was lost.

He'd always loved to cook, always loved to take care of people, so I had never once doubted anything he handed me.

I said nothing, only looked at the bowl of soup in front of me.

There was worry in his voice.

“What's wrong? No appetite? Are you feeling unwell somewhere?”

I thought of him signing a marriage license with someone else, and a sharp pain drove straight through my chest.

I sat down on the couch, pulled a blanket over myself, and spoke slowly.

“Eric, since something goes wrong every time we try to sign, and my health's this bad, let's just stop here. Forget it. Let's break up.”

His expression shifted.

“Are you feeling unwell again? Maybe we should go back to the hospital and get you checked. Maisie, sometimes good things take time. Don't put so much pressure on yourself.”

I laughed coldly inside.

A few more rounds of being dragged to that hospital and I really would end up an idiot.

The TV in the living room was running a severe storm warning.

I pulled the blanket tighter and, all at once, felt terribly alone.

Just then his phone buzzed.

Eric glanced down and read it fast, and the faintest trace of a smile crossed his lips.

He reached out and touched my face.

“Something urgent came up at the company. I have to go out.”

“Your head's a little muddled right now. Get some good sleep. I'll only be gone a while. Be good and stay home.”

Then he turned, grabbed his coat, and walked out without looking back.

Watching him go, a dull ache spread through my chest.

He was a germophobe. He loved everything clean, and normally he'd frown at even a splash of rain on his clothes.

Someone he'd rush out to meet in a downpour—how important must that person be to him.

I followed him out, hailed a cab, and trailed him all the way to the most luxurious five-star hotel in New York.

I stood at the entrance and saw the banquet hall piled with gifts, luxury items heaped everywhere in a dazzling display.

In the middle of the crowd, a woman stood surrounded by everyone, her eyes crinkled with laughter.

My heart lurched.

It was her?!