My Husband Left Me Bleeding to Comfort His Ex

The knife slipped.

I watched in horror as my index finger separated from the carrot, a thin line of red appearing where the blade had sliced through skin. Then the blood came—bright crimson against the orange vegetable, spreading like a watercolor left in the rain.

"Damn it," I whispered, grabbing a dish towel. The blood soaked through immediately, turning the white linen into a canvas of my carelessness.

It was our third anniversary. Three years since Dane had proposed in that charming Vermont Airbnb, three years since I'd said yes to a man who looked at me like I was his salvation. Three years of trying to be worthy of him.

I pressed the towel harder against my finger, but the blood kept coming. The pain was sharp now, radiating up my arm. I reached for my phone with my uninjured hand.

"Dane?" My voice cracked when he didn't answer. "Honey, I cut myself pretty bad. I need you to come home."

Voicemail. I tried again.

"Dane, please. It's bleeding really bad. I think I might need stitches."

Nothing. I called a third time, then a fourth. Each call went straight to his voicemail, that polished professional recording that told me he was unavailable.

Five calls. Six. Seven.

The towel was completely red now. I could see the bone in the deepest part of the cut. My vision blurred—from tears or blood loss, I couldn't tell anymore.

"You're being dramatic," I told myself, but the trembling in my voice betrayed me. "He'll call back. He's just in a meeting."

But even as I thought it, I knew better. Dane Franklin didn't forget important dates. He just didn't care about them.

I wrapped another towel around my hand and grabbed my keys. The drive to the hospital passed in a blur of rain and streetlights, my injured hand throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I kept glancing at my phone, willing it to light up with Dane's name.

It never did.

The emergency room was nearly empty. The nurse took one look at my hand and led me straight back.

"Six stitches," the doctor said, her eyes kind but clinical. "You were lucky you came in when you did."

Lucky. I almost laughed.

I sat in my car afterward, rain drumming on the roof, staring at the bandaged hand resting in my lap. The pain medication was starting to kick in, making everything feel distant and dreamlike.

My phone remained silent.

I started the engine and pulled away from the hospital, telling myself I was going home. But as I approached Le Coucou—Dane's favorite restaurant—something made me slow down.

There he was.

Dane stood under the restaurant's awning, his tall figure unmistakable even through the rain-streaked windshield. He wasn't alone. A woman with dark hair was facing him, her hands gesturing wildly as she spoke.

Claire Guzman. His college sweetheart. The woman whose name I wasn't supposed to know but had heard whispered in his sleep.

I pulled over, watching them