Just as I was about to struggle to get up, I heard Scott’s anxious voice. "Abigail, what happened? How did you fall out of your wheelchair?"
He rushed over and scooped me up effortlessly, holding me close before kneeling to check my legs for injuries. His touch was as careful and gentle as ever, but it no longer felt warm. No longer felt real.
"I'm fine," I said quietly. "I just wanted to see if I could stand."
Scott's expression softened instantly. He pulled me into his arms, his voice filled with pity.
He said, "Abigail, don't worry. I'll always take care of you. Even if you can’t stand for the rest of your life, it doesn’t matter to me. And our baby is already eight months along, I swear, once our child is born, I’ll devote myself completely to you both."
If I hadn’t overheard that conversation outside the study, I might have been touched. I might have believed him, let his words ease the ache in my chest.
But now, all I felt was cold.
"Oh, right," Scott said suddenly, his tone casual, like he hadn’t just shattered my world. "An expert from abroad arrived today. I met with him earlier, he says he can help with your delivery, but the process will be painful. You’ll have to endure a little more discomfort each day."
Then, as if it were nothing, he added, "You know how hard it was for us to conceive this child. We have to make sure the birth goes smoothly, no matter what."
At his signal, a doctor in a white coat stepped into the room, carrying a syringe as thick as my finger. My breath caught. I shook my head and looked at Scott. "I don’t need the injection. The baby will be fine."
For a split second, his face hardened. A flicker of irritation crossed his features, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Then, in a voice that left no room for argument, he said, "No. This is for your own good."
Before I could protest, he shoved my shoulders down. The needle plunged into my spine.
Pain exploded through me; cold, sharp, unbearable. The sensation twisted deep, spreading like fire and ice all at once. My body trembled violently, and as darkness crept in, I realized something.
Whatever love I had left for Scott, it was gone. When I woke again, it was late. The room was dim, silent except for the faint sound of Scott’s breathing.
He was still there, sitting by my side. Scott’s face was full of worry when I opened my eyes. "Abigail, you're awake! Are you feeling okay? The doctor said the baby is doing great. He even called you the bravest mother in the world!"
He looked at me like he actually cared, like I was supposed to be touched by his words. But all I could manage was a bitter smile.
I reached up and brushed my fingers against his tired, red-rimmed eyes. "I'm fine. You should get some rest."
It didn’t take long for his breathing to slow beside me.
That was when I noticed the spare phone on the nightstand, the one he always kept close but never let me touch. I had never tried to unlock it in the four years we had been married.
Tonight, I did.
It took only one guess, sure enough, it was Jacqueline’s birthday. The first thing I saw was his pinned chat: [Lovely Jacqueline.]
I clicked on it.
The messages were endless. Sweet, thoughtful. Full of warmth and care, more than I had ever received from him.
She sent him pictures, and he responded with the kind of affection I used to wish for. Every single one of her photos was saved.
An entire album. A thousand pictures labeled as: [LOML.]
Love of My Life, huh? I already knew, deep down. But seeing it spelled out so clearly still hit me like a punch to the chest. Tears burned in my eyes, slipping down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Then I checked his private drive. Thirteen years’ worth of memories, all about Jacqueline. Even her menstrual cycle was marked in red. A "special reminder."
And yet, when we were newly married, when I curled up in pain from years of untreated injuries, Scott had just glanced at me, stone-faced, and muttered, "Why are you being so dramatic?"
Then he’d walked away.
