With that, he kicked my peeling suitcase.
"Throw it away. Your job is to stay home and take care of my mother."
He left without looking back.
In his eyes, I was nothing more than a useful dog—good for guarding the house, never complaining.
I watched his elegant retreating figure.
A wave of helplessness washed over me.
The apartment grew quiet. Everyone was gone.
End this. I won't be the other woman.
I stared at the words on my screen: "Message failed to send."
Pathetic. I was still blocked.
The next second, a violent coughing fit erupted from Dawn's room.
I rushed in on instinct.
I called Blake in a panic. This time, he answered.
"Narelle, I'm busy. Don't bother me."
I could hear Lavinia's laughter in the background. A child's voice.
The line went dead.
I tried again from Dawn's phone. The number you have dialed is powered off.
Dawn was having a heart attack. She clutched her chest, her face ashen, drenched in cold sweat, mumbling incoherently.
With one hand, I loosened her collar and adjusted her position. With the other, I dialed 911.
"Chest pain for ten minutes, nitroglycerin ineffective. History of hypertension and diabetes. Please hurry!"
Her color was getting worse. I hoisted her hundred-and-twenty pounds onto my back.
I was severely anemic.
I nearly collapsed several times, but sheer willpower carried me down five flights of stairs.
As I gritted my teeth and told myself to hold on, Dawn's voice came weakly from my back:
"My grandson is here... I want to see my grandson..."
My mind went blank. I finally understood what she'd been mumbling.
Despair flooded through me. The tears I'd just stopped spilled over again.
"So you knew all along. I was the only one in the dark."
Dawn was too disoriented to answer.
I grabbed a pillar to keep from collapsing.
The ambulance arrived quickly. I rode with her to the hospital.
On the way, I borrowed a nurse's phone to call Blake.
A child's voice answered.
"Mommy and Daddy are sleeping in their room. They said not to bother them. Call back later, okay?"
"Tell your father to get here now. His mother's in the hospital."
I hung up.
Dawn was wheeled into the emergency room.
Registration. Payment. Finding the doctor. Running all over the building.
I was still wearing the coat I hadn't changed in two days. Dried tear tracks on my face. My hair matted with whatever Dawn had coughed up.
This was my eight years.
By the time I returned to the room, Blake was already chatting casually with the attending physician.
Lipstick stains on his collar, still fresh. Up close, the faint scent of women's perfume.
No mystery what kind of "sleeping" he'd been doing.
Yet he still looked polished. Poised. Heads turned as he spoke.
The elegant, composed version of him. And the filthy, disheveled version of me.
We might as well have been living in different worlds.
When the doctor saw me approach, he smiled warmly.
"Ah, you must be the caretaker looking after Mrs. Dickerson. I'll go over the follow-up instructions with you. Mr. Dickerson, rest assured."
The payment receipt in my hand froze mid-air.
Blake stood motionless.
I stared at him, fighting to control my heartbeat.
But the next second—
Blake shook the doctor's hand without missing a beat.
"Yes. Thank you for your hard work."
Crack.
The last shred of hope in my heart shattered completely.
How many times had it been now?
I looked at the matter-of-fact expression on his face and realized how laughable my expectations had been.
