His Tattoo's Final Lie

I was hospitalized for complications from a high-risk IVF procedure at Seattle's top hospital. That same day, my husband Julian Blackwood’s phone was blowing up with frantic texts and missed calls.

The messages were from Cassie, his intern.

I asked if he needed to get back to her. "What is it now?" he grumbled. "Doesn't she have a life? God, she's relentless."

Later, that same intern sent a photo from a ski cabin in Colorado, a blizzard raging outside the window.

The caption read: [If I get trapped and die here, will I come back as a snowflake? Maybe then, I wouldn't be a bother to anyone.]

Julian glanced at it and let out a scornful laugh. "Become a snowflake? Talk about a victim complex."

But after that, he grew noticeably restless. Then he rushed out, booked the next red-eye flight, and didn't come back all night.

That night, I hemorrhaged and was rushed into the emergency room.

When the nurse asked if I wanted to keep trying to save the baby, I glanced at the empty spot beside me and answered calmly.

"No. I don't want it anymore."

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1

I woke as the anesthesia wore off, the afternoon sun already filtering into the room.

I laid a hand on my flat abdomen. The movement caused the sleeve of my hospital gown to slide down, revealing a constellation of pinpricks and bruises.

I’ve always been terrified of pain, yet for the chance to have a child with Julian, I had endured countless injections.

Yet, in the twenty-seven hours since I was wheeled into surgery, he still hadn't returned.

As if on cue, the phone on the bedside table lit up.

It was a video from Julian, but the content had nothing to do with me or the baby. No, it was just a humblebrag disguised as a complaint. In it, he griped, "Cassie got trapped on the mountain by a blizzard and was terrified. Her parents are in Vegas, and her brother's a good-for-nothing, so I had to be the one to fly over and keep her company. What a pain."

Although he claimed it was a hassle, as the camera shook, I saw him sitting before a fireplace, a hint of indulgence in his tone he hadn't even noticed himself.

I stared at his face on the screen and offered a single word in reply: "Okay."

Then, I opened Instagram.

Cassie had posted a photo of them snuggling in front of the fireplace, captioned: [You are my hero.]

At the same time, she had also changed her profile picture to one of a snow princess being saved by a handsome prince.

The shot was framed as if captured by chance, a man’s arm wrapped tightly around her. On his wrist, a tattoo was clearly visible.

I recognized it instantly. It was Julian's wrist. That tattoo had once been a testament to our love, an intricate "J" intertwined with an "M."

Now, however, the "M" for my name, Madeline, had been cleverly modified into a "C" for Cassie.

A wry, humorless smile touched my lips as I calmly took a screenshot.

Then, I opened my own account and changed my profile picture from our wedding photo back to my solo graduation portrait from my Ivy League days.

Less than a minute after I changed the picture, a call from Julian came through.

"Madeline, I already explained. Cassie is trapped in Colorado and she's scared. I'm just here to help her as her mentor. Besides, she's been through enough. Can't you stop being so unreasonable?"

Ah, pitiful. That was the word Julian had been using to describe Cassie lately.

When this girl first joined the company, she was clumsy and couldn't handle the most basic reports. She was always trailing behind Julian, asking this and that. Julian used to complain to me about her constantly, calling her a troublemaker.

He always had a habit of sharing amusing stories from work with me, but at some point, his stories all became about her.

"Madeline, that girl doesn't even know how to use the coffee machine! I honestly don't know how she’s survived this long."

"Cassie botched the client data again, and the board chewed me out for it! I swear, I'm this close to telling HR to get rid of her!"