The next few days were a strange charade. Coleton, in a desperate attempt to atone—mostly for the public perception—became my shadow. He brought me flowers, read to me from books I didn't care for, and tried to engage me in small talk. His presence, instead of being comforting, felt awkward, almost suffocating.
"Are you feeling unwell, Clarissa?" he asked one afternoon, his voice laced with forced concern. "You're so quiet. Not yourself."
"I'm merely growing up, Coleton," I replied, my gaze fixed on the hospital window. "Growing into my skin. Finding my peace."
He used to praise my fire, my passion. But I was never really his wild card. I was just the cheap substitute.
I remembered the arguments. The times I'd dared to challenge him. "Shut up, Clarissa!" he would yell. "You're acting like a lunatic!"
But I had fought back, too. I had screamed. I had pleaded. One time, after a particularly vicious fight, he had locked me in the bedroom for an entire weekend "to cool off," taking my phone so I couldn't "embarrass him." I had panicked, feeling the walls closing in. He had been so remorseful then, so full of promises. He even cut off contact with Annis for a while. He swore he'd change. He even talked about having a baby, a new beginning.
I had believed him. Again. I had pushed through the physical pain, the endless fertility treatments. I got pregnant. With twins. High-risk, but viable.
And then, when the cramping started, when I called him in terror, he sent me to voicemail.
He was with Annis, shielding her from "drama," while I lost our future on a cold bathroom floor. And when he finally returned, he didn't cry for them. He didn't hold me. He told me it was "nature's way" and asked me to apologize to Annis.
He had personally severed the last fragile thread that connected us.
He was here now, begging for forgiveness, promising to make it up to me. "I know I messed up, Clarissa," he pleaded, tears glistening in his eyes. "I should have answered the phone. I just didn't think... I didn't think it was serious. Please, don't shut me out."
But there was no punishment I could inflict that would bring back what was gone. The tiny heartbeats, the dreams we'd woven—they were all gone. And with them, my capacity to love him.
"Go, Coleton," I said, a wave of profound weariness washing over me. "Go do whatever it is you have to do." His presence was suffocating. I couldn't breathe.
He paused, then looked at me, a question in his eyes. "You're not angry?"
"No, Coleton," I said, my voice flat. "I'm not angry." The lie came easily now.
He seemed to relax a fraction, his movements less guarded. He fumbled for his phone, which he had kept off for the last two days. The moment it powered on, it exploded with notifications. Messages, calls, emails. His face paled as he scrolled through them, his eyes wide with alarm.
"I… I have to go," he stammered, already halfway to the door. "Something's come up. An emergency at the office." He didn't even try to make eye contact.
I watched him go, a sense of grim satisfaction settling in my chest. Annis. It was always Annis.
I picked up my phone. A quick check of Annis's social media confirmed my suspicion. A picture of her looking distraught, clinging to some executive from Coleton's company, a caption about "malevolent forces trying to destroy good people."
My gaze fell on my left hand, bare without the engagement ring. I slipped it off, its weight suddenly foreign and heavy. I walked to the open window and, without a second thought, tossed it out. It glittered for a moment in the afternoon sun, then disappeared into the hospital garden below. Good riddance.
