Chapter 5
"That man is a complete imbecile," a deep voice rumbled. "A spineless, pathetic excuse for a husband. I hope he chokes on his own words."
My eyes snapped open. I almost vaulted out of the hospital bed. The man, Jaydon, was pacing by the window, a phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, but the anger vibrated through the room.
"Don' t you dare call this number again," he growled into the phone. "You want to know who this is? This is the man who just witnessed your spectacular display of neglect and cruelty. Now, if you' ll excuse me, I have a patient to attend to."
He hung up, then, with a flick of his wrist, powered off his phone. He turned, his eyes meeting mine. A slight, almost shy smile touched his lips.
"Sorry," he said, running a hand through his dark hair. "My language. But that man… he truly is an idiot." He shook his head. "To leave his wife, clearly in distress, out in that weather, while he parades his mistress around like a prize. And not even a single question about your well-being."
He paused, his gaze softening. "You really know how to pick them, don' t you?"
I offered a weak, lopsided smile. "Tell me about it," I whispered, the words tasting bitter. "Husbands, parents, friends... I' m not even sure I know how to pick a good child." The thought hit me with a fresh wave of pain, but I pushed it down. I wouldn' t cry. Not here. Not now.
"Do you have any food?" I asked, the question surprising even myself. My stomach rumbled in protest. I realized I hadn' t eaten in days.
Jaydon' s hand went immediately to his pocket, pulling out his now-silent phone. "What do you want? Anything. Name it."
"Just… toast, maybe?" I mumbled. "And some soup."
He ignored me, his fingers flying across the screen. "I' m ordering from the best Italian place downtown. You need something substantial. How about their seafood pasta? Or a steak? And a fresh fruit platter. And some soup, of course." He rattled off a list of dishes, his voice confident and assured.
He moved with an easy grace, adjusting my pillows, checking the IV bag. He seemed to know exactly what to do, like he' d been doing it his whole life.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, confusion coloring my voice. "We' re strangers. Most people would have just dropped me off and left."
He paused, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes, dark and intense, met mine. "I have zero tolerance for bullies," he said, his voice firm. "And I have immense respect for anyone brave enough to walk away from a toxic situation." He added, almost as an afterthought, "Besides, I did cause you quite a fright."
The food arrived remarkably quickly. While I ate, ravenously, he sat in the armchair by the window, working diligently on his laptop. He glanced up occasionally, checking on me. His presence, warm and steady, was strangely comforting. For the first time in years, I felt seen. Understood.
I imagined Mark' s reaction when he found out I was in the hospital. Or rather, when he found out I wasn't dead. He probably assumed I' d just disappeared. For a decade, I' d chased his attention, his approval, his love. Now, the tables were turning.
A dark, wicked satisfaction bloomed in my chest. I hoped he felt a fraction of the pain he' d inflicted on me. Though I knew he wouldn' t. Mark wasn' t capable of genuine sadness. He' d probably just feel inconvenienced. Or, more likely, relieved.
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