Chapter 3
The first forty-eight hours after surgery blur together like watercolors left in the rain. Morphine dreams. The sharp pull of stitches when I turn my head. Mom's hand, always there, always warm.
Dr. Mitchell says the surgery went well. They removed most of the tumor. The word "most" hangs in the air like a threat, but I'm too tired to interrogate it.
On the third morning, I wake to find Mom asleep in the chair beside my bed, her neck bent at an angle that will hurt later. David is sprawled on the small couch by the window, his long legs hanging off the edge. They've been here every day, taking shifts, bringing me things I don't need. Love I don't deserve.
My phone—David returned it after blocking Carson—sits on the bedside table. I pick it up with my good hand, the one without the IV. Thirty-seven missed calls from unknown numbers. Carson, probably, using different phones when he realized I'd blocked him.
I delete them all without listening.
There's a voicemail from James Harrison, Carson's business partner. I almost delete it too, but curiosity wins.
"Aurelia, it's James. I... Christ, I don't know what to say. Carson told me everything. About Veronica. About the lie. I had no idea. If I'd known..." A long pause, the sound of someone trying to find words that don't exist. "I saw the ambulance report from JFK. I hope you're okay. You deserve so much better than this. If you need anything—a lawyer, a friend, anything—call me."
I set the phone down. James is a good man. He deserves a better friend than Carson.
The morning stretches into afternoon. A nurse comes to check my vitals, her smile professional but kind. She adjusts my IV, tells me my color is improving. I nod, say thank you, play the role of a cooperative patient.
It's almost three o'clock when she arrives.
I don't hear the door open—the morphine dulls everything—but I feel the shift in the air. That particular electricity that comes with malice.
Veronica Lewis stands at the foot of my bed.
She's even more beautiful up close. Chanel suit, perfectly tailored. Hair that probably costs more to maintain than I spent on groceries in a month. Her lips are the color of arterial blood.
"Well," she says, her accent curling around the word like smoke. "You look even worse than I imagined."
Mom jerks awake. David sits up, instantly alert.
"Who the hell are you?" David demands, already moving toward her.
Veronica ignores him, her eyes fixed on me. "I'm the woman Carson actually loves. The woman he's been waiting for while you played nurse to a man who was never sick."
The words should hurt. They should cut deep, draw blood. But I've already bled out. There's nothing left for her to take.
"Get out," Mom says, her voice shaking with fury. "Before I call security."
"I'll leave when I'm ready." Veronica steps closer, and I can smell her perfume—something expensive and cloying. "I just wanted to see the famous Aurelia. The devoted wife. The pathetic little martyr." Her gaze travels over my bandaged head, my pale skin, the IV drip. "Carson told me you were plain, but this is tragic. Do us all a favor and die quickly, would you? Then Carson and I can finally live in peace."
The room goes silent.
David lunges forward, but I raise my hand—the one with the IV—and he stops.
I stare at Veronica. Really stare. I take in the perfect makeup, the designer clothes, the cruel twist of her mouth. I see her clearly now, maybe for the first time. She's not a rival. She's not even a person. She's just another lie Carson told himself.
"You're right," I say. My voice is steady, almost conversational. "I was pathetic. I wasted seven years on a man who didn't deserve seven minutes. But you know what's even more pathetic?"
Her smile falters.
"You waited seven years for a man who married someone else. You're fighting for scraps, Veronica. You're welcome to them."
I reach over and press the nurse call button.
Veronica's face flushes red. "You think you've won? You're dying, you stupid—"
"Security to room 847," the intercom crackles. "Immediately."
Two guards arrive within ninety seconds. Veronica shrieks about her rights, her connections, her importance, but they escort her out anyway. Her voice echoes down the hallway, shrill and fading.
When the door closes, David lets out a breath. "Jesus Christ."
Mom sits back down, gripping my hand. "Are you okay?"
I'm not. I won't be for a long time. But something has shifted, some tectonic plate deep inside me.
"Mom," I say quietly. "Call a lawyer. I want to file for divorce. Today."
She squeezes my hand. "I'll make the call."
The lawyer arrives at six o'clock. His name is Richard Chen, and he's all business. He sets up his laptop on the rolling table, asks questions in a calm, methodical voice. How long was the marriage? Are there shared assets? Children?
No children. Thank God for that mercy.
My head pounds as I answer his questions. The words blur together on the screen when he shows me the documents. But I read every line. I initial every page.
When I reach the final signature line, my hand shakes so badly I can barely hold the pen.
"Take your time," Richard says.
I press the pen to paper. The ink flows, forming letters I've written thousands of times: *Aurelia Clark.*
Not Webb. Never Webb again.
I sign my name and reclaim my life.
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