I woke to the smell of orchids. Heavy, cloying, expensive. The kind of flowers men send when they want to make an impression, not when they actually know what you like.
Julian Vance stood beside my hospital bed, holding my hand.
I blinked, my lungs still raw from the smoke, and tried to pull away. His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt, but enough to keep me there.
"Vivian," he said softly. "I came as soon as I heard. You shouldn't be alone right now."
I didn't have the energy to tell him I wanted to be alone. That his presence here, uninvited, was making my skin crawl. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat was too dry. The words came out as a rasp.
"Julian. Please—"
"Don't try to talk," he interrupted, leaning closer. His cologne mixed with the orchids, creating something suffocating. "Just rest. I'll stay with you."
That was when I saw Kendrick in the doorway.
His face went white, then red. His hands clenched at his sides. Behind him, Stormi's eyes widened with what looked like concern but felt like calculation.
Julian dropped my hand and stepped back, but the damage was done.
"What the hell is this?" Kendrick's voice was low, dangerous.
Julian straightened his jacket. "I was visiting a friend. Is that a crime?"
"Get out."
Julian looked at me, as if I might defend him. I turned my head away. He left without another word, taking his orchids with him.
Kendrick moved to the foot of my bed. He didn't come closer. Didn't ask if I was okay. Just stood there, staring at me like I was something he'd found on the bottom of his shoe.
"How long?" he asked.
I tried to sit up. The IV tugged at my arm. "How long what?"
"How long have you been sleeping with him?"
The accusation hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, waiting for him to realize what he'd just said. Waiting for him to take it back.
He didn't.
"I'm not," I said quietly. "I've never—"
"Don't lie to me, Vivian." His voice was loud enough now that I saw a nurse pause in the hallway outside. "He was holding your hand. Leaning over you like—"
"Like what?" My voice was stronger now, fueled by something sharper than hurt. "Like he cared? Is that so hard to believe?"
Stormi touched Kendrick's arm. Her voice was soft, sympathetic. "Maybe this explains why she's been so resistant. Maybe she's been unhappy in the marriage for reasons she hasn't told you."
Kendrick's jaw tightened. He looked at Stormi, then back at me. "I need proof."
I laughed. It came out broken, bitter. "Proof of what? That I'm not having an affair? That's not how this works, Kendrick."
"Then you won't mind proving it."
The hospital administrator arrived twenty minutes later. A thin man with glasses and a clipboard, looking uncomfortable. "Mr. Ford, I understand your concerns, but we can't simply—"
"I'm her husband," Kendrick interrupted. "I have every right to request a medical examination to confirm my wife's fidelity."
The administrator glanced at me. I could see the apology in his eyes, the helplessness. Kendrick had that effect on people. He walked into rooms and made them his.
"Mrs. Ford," the administrator said carefully, "you have the right to refuse."
I looked at Kendrick. At the cold certainty in his face. At Stormi standing behind him, her hand resting on her stomach, her expression perfectly blank.
If I refused, he would take it as confirmation. If I agreed, I would undergo the most humiliating experience of my life to prove something I shouldn't have to prove.
I was so tired.
"Fine," I whispered.
The examination room was cold. The paper gown crinkled when I moved. The gynecologist was professional, efficient, her face carefully neutral. But I saw the pity in her eyes when she glanced at me. The nurse who assisted her didn't meet my gaze at all.
I stared at the ceiling tiles and counted them. Thirty-six. I focused on the number, on the small water stain in the corner, on anything except what was happening to my body.
When it was over, the doctor handed me a tissue and left the room without a word.
I dressed slowly. My hands shook as I buttoned my hospital gown. I sat on the examination table for a long time after, my fingers moving unconsciously to straighten the items on the small tray beside me. The box of gloves. The jar of cotton swabs. The bottle of hand sanitizer.
I forced myself to stop.
Kendrick was waiting in my room when I returned. He held a folder—the examination results. He opened it, scanned the page, then folded it once and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
"Well?" I asked.
He looked at me. "You're clear."
I waited for the apology. For some acknowledgment of what he'd just put me through.
He turned and walked toward the door. Stormi followed him, her hand finding his.
"Kendrick," I said.
He paused but didn't turn around.
"I want you to know something," I continued, my voice steady now. "When you leave this room, you're leaving the last piece of me that still loved you."
He stood there for three seconds. Then he walked out.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I didn't cry. I didn't move. I just lay there, listening to the sound of monitors beeping in other rooms, the soft footsteps of nurses in the hallway, the distant murmur of the television in the waiting area.
My hand moved to the water pitcher on the bedside table. I straightened it. Then the call button. Then the plastic cup.
I made myself stop.
I made myself lie still.
I made myself breathe.