Before Coleen could collect her thoughts, a friend request popped up—from Emily, the woman who had ruined her clinic's opening day.
After a moment of hesitation, she accepted.
The woman didn't say a word, but curiosity got the better of Coleen. Almost without thinking, she tapped into Emily's social feed.
The most recent post showed two interlaced hands, fingers tightly entwined.
The caption read. [Just another ordinary day. After overtime, someone took me out for a candlelight dinner.]
That "ordinary day" was Coleen's birthday.
Bruce had texted her that he was too busy to come home. Instead, he sent a towering two-tier cake and an expensive piece of jewelry.
Coleen had sat alone in the huge apartment that night, staring at the untouched cake, remembering a different time—when they'd had nothing.
Back then, they lived in a cramped, mold-stained apartment with peeling paint.
He spent 9.9 dollars on a tiny sponge cake, topped with a fake cherry dyed bright red. They split it in half, sharing each bite like it was a treasure.
When she blew out the single candle, she whispered, "I wish you'll be with me every birthday."
Bruce laughed and told her to change her wish. "You don't have to wish for that. Being with you isn't a dream—it's a promise. Birthdays, anniversaries, even the most ordinary days—I'll always be there."
Did the man in his thirties still remember saying that?
Coleen's hand trembled as she scrolled. She couldn't bring herself to look any further.
She stood abruptly and went to find her father's doctor.
The man looked surprised to see her.
"Mrs. Sandoval—it's been a long time since you've visited the hospital."
This hospital had once belonged to the Vega family—until her father fell gravely ill, and Bruce took over its management.
"Mr. Vega's condition isn't very good," the doctor said cautiously. "The new medication still has some side effects—"
"What new medication?" Coleen cut him off.
He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "A few months ago, after Mr. Vega's third surgery, Mr. Sandoval's secretary came and instructed us to change the treatment plan. We started him on a new drug."
Coleen's pupils constricted and her lips trembled. "You changed his medication without telling me?"
"We thought you had already discussed it with Mr. Sandoval," the doctor explained quickly. "He told us that anything his secretary said represented his own wishes. We wanted to confirm with you, but... the secretary didn't seem very patient."
Coleen didn't remember how she walked out of the hospital.
Her mind kept circling the same unbearable thought.
Was Bruce punishing her father for opposing their marriage all those years ago? Had he taken revenge now, when the old man was powerless, when she herself was trapped in a gilded cage called marriage?
As those thoughts clouded her mind, she couldn't bring herself to go back to that suffocating penthouse.
She wandered aimlessly through the streets until, somehow, she stopped in front of their old apartment—the one they had rented after getting married.
She could still remember those nights. The damp walls. The faint smell of mildew. The two of them clung to each other under a thin blanket in winter, promising each other a better life.
"One day," he'd said, "you'll never have to live like this again."
Coleen reached for the rusty doorknob, unsure why she even wanted to go inside. But as her hand brushed the metal, she froze.
From within came the sound of heavy breathing, mingled with soft, muffled moans.
She just lightly touched it, but the old door creaked.
The sounds abruptly stopped.
A woman's voice spoke, confused. "Did you hear that? Someone's outside."
After a pause, a man's low voice answered, indifferent. "Probably just a rat. Ignore it."
Something inside her shattered completely.
Coleen stood motionless in the cold hallway, every nerve frozen solid. For a moment, she wanted to storm in—scream, curse, destroy. But she was no longer young.
Years of restraint and obligation bound her like invisible chains—demanding she stay composed, elegant, dignified—the perfect Mrs. Sandoval.
When the couple finally finished and the door opened, Coleen fled before they could see her.
She ran—faster and faster—tears trailing behind her like rain.
Someone passing by muttered, "Huh? Is it raining?"
By the time she reached a nearby law firm, it was nearly dawn. Only a few offices were still open.
She threw down a thick envelope of cash, and said, "I need a divorce agreement. Now."
They moved quickly, driven by her money.
She hadn't slept a minute by the time the draft was done. She told them to demand half of everything—assets, property, shares. Her voice shook as she recounted her husband's betrayal, but when the lawyer asked her to describe the state of their marriage, her throat closed up.
After all, Bruce had never failed her in public. To everyone else in Chicago, they were a perfect couple, his gentle first love that he'd married against all odds.
The irony made her sick.
In the end, she whispered, "Forget it. I don't want anything as long as I can divorce him."
The next day, clutching the freshly printed agreement, Coleen walked into Sandoval Corporation for the first time in years.
