I turned around and saw his face twisted in fury.
“You pushed her, didn’t you?!”
“I…” I hadn’t even finished explaining before his palm struck my face.
“Dante, you hit me?” My voice trembled, hoarse and disbelieving.
“If anything happens to Lyra, I’ll hit you harder next time!”
His voice was sharp and cold as a blade.
He brushed past me and ran toward the ambulance.
He carried Lyra in his arms as if she were a bride.
That sight pierced my heart like a needle, deeper with every breath.
He didn’t even look back.
I chased him to the parking lot, reaching for the passenger door, but he slammed on the gas.
The tires screeched against the pavement, the gust of air knocking my hand away and nearly sending me to the ground.
Colleagues downstairs stared, whispering to one another.
Their gazes hurt more than the slap.
I hailed a cab home.
The city lights flashed past the window, but all I could think was one thing:
He doesn’t believe me.
When I got home, I began packing my suitcase.
I had thought that if he was willing to hear me out, maybe I could still try to save this marriage.
But now I knew clearly he was already gone.
I folded the last piece of clothing, and before I could close the suitcase, the door burst open.
Dante stormed in, his face dark with anger.
“Come with me.”
“Where?” I asked coldly.
He didn’t answer. He just grabbed my arm roughly.
“To the hospital. Lyra needs a blood transfusion because of you.”
“Because of me?” I laughed, my voice shaking. “She fell on her own!”
“Don’t lie!” he roared. “Her blood type is rare, the emergency room doesn’t have a match. You’re O-type she needs your blood.”
“But I…”
“I don’t want to hear it!”
He shoved me toward the door.
I stumbled, catching myself against the frame.
“Dante, how can you not believe me but believe her?”
“Everyone heard her scream!” he shouted. “Your jealousy almost got someone killed!”
He didn’t look at me again, dragging me all the way to the car.
I was half-pushed, half-dragged into the hospital.
I wanted to resist, but against his strength, I was helpless.
The emergency room smelled of disinfectant.
Lyra lay on the bed, pale as a paper flower.
When she saw me, the corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
“Doctor, her blood type is O-positive,” Dante said, his voice almost pleading. “Please, help her.”
The doctor nodded. “We’ll need the wife to sign a consent form.”
Before I could react, Dante snatched the pen from the tray.
“I’ll sign.”
He wrote his name quickly.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the nurse had already pressed me into the chair.
The needle slid into my arm, cold liquid flowing through my veins.
Dizziness hit me like a wave, and the world went dark.
When I woke, the ceiling above me was a blinding white.
I tried to sit up, but pain throbbed through my head.
The door opened, and Dante walked in, his expression emotionless.
“You’re lucky,” he said flatly. “Lyra’s going to be fine.”
I let out a short laugh. “How fortunate for me.”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” he said coldly. “You only gave a bit of blood. It’s not like you lost a limb.”
“Don’t you even care how I am?” I asked quietly.
He adjusted his cufflinks, his tone icy. “The doctor said you’re fine. Stop acting pitiful.”
His words cut deeper than any wound, slicing through the last of my illusions.
As he turned to leave, the doctor stepped into the room.
