"What kind of wife is this?! She's more like an enemy!"
Mia turned to look at me, tears streaming down her face.
"Sir... please... don't lose hope..."
I forced my eyes open and managed a weak smile.
"I'm not."
At the hospital, they rushed me through the emergency corridor straight to the operating room.
The surgeon held up the consent form, his brow furrowed deeply.
"Where's the family? We need a family member to sign!"
Mia wiped her eyes, her voice cracking.
"His family refused to answer. They said... they said he should sign it himself."
The surgeon froze for a moment.
He looked at my ashen face and let out a heavy sigh.
"Son, are you lucid? Do you understand what's happening?"
I nodded.
"Pen... give me the pen."
My right hand trembled as I reached out, still caked with dried blood.
In the space marked "Patient's Own Signature," I scrawled my name in shaky, uneven strokes.
Each stroke felt like carving into my own flesh.
Each line severed another thread binding me to Katherine.
When I finished, my hand dropped lifelessly to my side.
"Doctor. Do it."
"Cut it clean."
I closed my eyes. A single tear slid down my temple.
The surgical lights blazed to life above me.
The anesthesia spread through my veins—cold, so cold it burned.
As consciousness faded, I drifted into a dream.
I saw our wedding day. Katherine in her pristine white gown, cradling my face in her hands.
"Emmet, I'll protect you from now on. You'll always come first in my life. Always."
The scene shifted. Now she held scissors, her face set in stone as she severed my lifeline without a flicker of hesitation.
When I woke, silence pressed in from every direction.
No beds available in the ICU.
They'd wheeled me back to a general ward.
Dawn light filtered through the window.
Instinctively, I reached down to touch my right leg.
My hand found nothing.
Just flat emptiness. A bandaged stump where my leg used to be.
The nurse had left my phone on the bedside table.
One message. From Katherine. Sent last night.
"Ferdy got such a scare, he's doing psychological counseling and staying for concussion observation. Take a cab home yourself. Don't be dramatic."
"The apartment's a mess. Clean it up when you get back."
I checked the timestamp.
Eight hours.
Eight hours since my amputation surgery ended.
She was in this very hospital.
With that man who didn't have a scratch on him.
I didn't reply.
Powered off the phone.
Tossed it into the drawer.
On the second day after surgery, Katherine finally appeared.
She carried an elegant insulated container, wearing a designer coat that probably cost more than my hospital bill. Her hair was immaculately styled, not a strand out of place.
You'd never guess she'd been anywhere near a car accident.
I lay in the corner bed, watching her push through the door.
I felt nothing.
She walked straight past me.
To the bed beside mine.
Where Ferdinand lay.
For "observation" of his so-called concussion and "psychological trauma," he'd been admitted to my room.
"Ferdy, you must be starving! I got up early to make you black chicken soup—it's the most nourishing thing."
Katherine's voice dripped with tenderness I no longer recognized.
She opened the container.
The rich aroma flooded the room instantly.
Ferdinand reclined against his pillows, his complexion rosy, his eyes bright and alert.
The moment he saw Katherine, he arranged his features into a mask of fragility.
He pressed a hand to his chest and forced out two pathetic coughs.
"Katie, you're too good to me... but I don't have much appetite. I keep thinking about yesterday..."
His gaze drifted toward my corner.
He feigned surprise, as if only just noticing me.
"Oh! Emmet's here too?"
"Katie, why didn't you say so? Quick—give the soup to him. He lost so much blood yesterday. He needs it way more than I do."
