Emiliano had canceled our anniversary dinner, just last night. "Studio emergency, babe," he'd signed, his eyes avoiding mine. "Big deadline. You know how it is. We'll celebrate properly after the tour." His words, though signed, felt hollow, like a drum without a skin.
I remembered staring at the elaborate table setting I' d prepared, the flickering candles, the perfectly chilled champagne. All for nothing. Alone in the quiet loft, the silence felt heavier than usual, a suffocating blanket. I' d even had a follow-up appointment with my audiologist that day. "Remarkable, Adell," Dr. Lee had said, peering into my ear canal. "The nerve damage seems to be…reversing. It' s almost a miracle. You' re regaining some function."
I' d almost laughed then, the irony too sharp. My hearing, finally returning after all these years, just in time for what?
I clicked on Keisha Duke's profile. A cascade of photos flooded my screen. Her, laughing with Emiliano. Her, draped over his arm at a club. Her, wearing his vintage leather jacket-the one I' d bought him years ago, the one he swore he'd never let anyone else touch. My breath hitched. He was wearing a new watch, a sleek silver design I' d never seen before, subtly glinting in all her photos. It wasn't the antique gold one I' d given him for his first major tour.
A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. It wasn't just speculation anymore. It was real. It was glaringly, painfully real. My vision blurred, hot tears stinging my eyes. I felt a scream rising in my throat, but it died there, choked by a wave of nausea. My body trembled, every nerve ending screaming in protest.
I grabbed my phone, fingers fumbling over the keypad. "Where are you?" I texted him.
His reply came minutes later: "Still at the studio, babe. Massive issues. Don't wait up."
I typed, "Can I come join you? Bring you some food?"
Silence.
No, not silence. A new post from Keisha Duke flashed across my feed. A short video. Her in a crowded, pulsating club, laughing, her arm wrapped around Emiliano's waist. His head was thrown back, a wide, genuine smile on his face. The very smile he hadn't given me in weeks.
"Club Pulse, baby! Best night ever!" Keisha's caption read.
Club Pulse. Not the studio. He had lied. He was with her.
My ears buzzed, a high-pitched whine that was both new and terrifying. It was the sound of betrayal, amplified. My body felt heavy, rooted to the spot, but my mind was a whirlwind of ice and fire. I had to see it. I had to know.
I caught a cab, the city lights a blur outside the window. The bass from Club Pulse vibrated through the pavement, through my shoes, up into my chest. I pushed through the bouncers, my eyes scanning the throbbing crowd. And then I saw them.
Emiliano, under the strobe lights, his arm around Keisha. He was laughing, his head bent close to hers. An ugly, raw sound scraped its way out of my throat. It was not a scream. It was a whimper, lost in the deafening music.
I stood there, frozen, my body a block of ice in the humid heat of the club. My head throbbed, and the newly returned hearing in my left ear was picking up every single, agonizing beat of the music. And then, voices.
"Look at Emiliano, finally having some fun," one of his bandmates slurred, nudging another man. "The 'deaf angel' was getting a little too much, wasn't she?"
"Yeah," the other replied, taking a swig from his bottle. "Eight years. That's a long time to play nursemaid. Besides, Adell was always so… quiet. You know, no spark. Keisha's got fire. Just what he needs to keep the hits coming."
My heart hammered against my ribs. It wasn't just them. Emiliano' s voice, clear as a bell, reached my ears. "Honestly, she's become… a burden. All that 'my hero' stuff, the constant gratitude. It's draining." He laughed, a bitter, dismissive sound that tore through me. "And the sex? Like doing a favor for a charity case. I prefer someone who can scream my name, not just sign it." He squeezed Keisha's waist, and she giggled, pressing her face into his shoulder.
The irony of that statement hit me like a physical blow. The very ear he spoke of, the one I' d damaged protecting him, was now perfectly capable of hearing every cruel word. The roar in my head intensified, a crushing weight against my eardrums.
"I mean, I still feel obligated, you know?" he continued, his voice laced with annoyance. "After everything. The accident. The whole 'she saved my life' narrative. Can't just ditch her. Not yet. The wedding's still on for show. But this… this is freedom." He gestured vaguely at Keisha, his eyes filled with a hungry light that made my stomach churn.
My hands clenched, nails digging into my palms. The champagne glass on a nearby table, forgotten by its owner, seemed to mock me. It was fragile, elegant, full of celebratory bubbles. And then, without thinking, I grabbed it. My arm swung, propelled by a force I didn't recognize. The glass sailed through the air, glinting under the strobe lights, and shattered against the wall just above Emiliano's head, the sound swallowed by the bass drop, but the spray of liquid making him flinch.
He turned, his eyes wide, confusion morphing into recognition.
"Adell?" he mouthed, his face paling.
