Chapter 3

The news of Elara Vance’s “critical condition” reached me for the third time while I was in the kitchen, brewing herbal medicine. The clay pot gurgled, steam rising, and the pungent scent of the herbs, bitter with dried orange peel, filled the air, much like the bitter taste of my relationship with Liam lately.

He burst in, creating a gust of wind. The hem of his white coat brushed the stove, knocking over the bowl of medicine I'd just poured. The dark brown liquid splattered across the off-white tiles, leaving an ugly, spreading stain.

“Chloe, Elara’s crashing again. Her heart rate dropped to forty, the doctors said...”

He stammered, grabbing my arm with a force that felt like he was trying to crush my bones. “I have to go to the hospital, just for a moment. If she sees me, maybe she’ll stabilize...”

I looked at the bloodshot in his eyes, at the long strand of hair on his white coat collar, a shade that definitely wasn't mine, and suddenly I laughed.

“Liam Davis,” I pulled my arm free, grabbed a rag, and squatted to wipe the floor, my fingernails digging into the grout lines of the tiles. “Do you even remember what day it is today?”

He paused, clearly not getting it.

“It’s my follow-up appointment.”

I wiped the medicine stain into a blurry smear, my voice flat as stagnant water. “The doctors said my post-op recovery isn’t going well. I *have* to go in for a dressing change today, or there’s a risk of infection.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes flickered away. “I know, but Elara, she...”

“So she’s important, and I’m not? Is that it?”

I looked up, meeting his eyes, asking each word clearly. “In your eyes, am I just supposed to stand here forever, waiting for you? Waiting for you to soothe your patient, waiting for you to remember the fiancée you abandoned, waiting for you to throw me a crumb of your pathetic attention?”

“No!” he blurted out, rushing to explain, but his phone buzzed wildly at that moment, the words “Emergency Room” flashing across the screen.

He glanced at his phone, then at me, and finally snatched up his car keys. “Chloe, please, I’m begging you. I promise I’ll take you to the hospital as soon as I get back, and stay for as long as you need...”

“No need.”

I stood up, threw the herb-stained rag into the trash bin. “Liam Davis, just go.”

His footsteps halted. A flash of surprise crossed his eyes, perhaps not expecting such a calm response from me.

“There’s just one more thing I need to tell you,” I said, walking to the hallway, picking up my jacket, and zipping it all the way up, covering half my face. “During my check-up last week, the doctors told me... it might be very difficult for me to get pregnant again.”

The car keys clattered to the floor from his hand.

“What did you say?” His voice was utterly shaky. He lunged forward, trying to embrace me. “How could this happen? Was it... the surgery?”

“Yes,” I stepped back, evading his touch. “Or maybe it was when I fainted at the wedding and hit my stomach. Who knows?”

I tried to force a smile, but it felt twisted and wrong. “But it’s fine, right? You don’t care anyway, do you?”

He stood frozen, his face went ghost-white, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word. His phone was still ringing, the shrill sound like a death knell.

I changed into my shoes, pulled open the door, and a blast of cold air rushed in, making me shiver.

“Go,” I said, looking at the stark, fluorescent light in the hallway. “Don’t keep your patient waiting.”

He didn’t move, his eyes fixed on me, as if trying to brand me into his very soul.

“Liam Davis,” I gave him one last look. “The moment you chose her, you should have known some things, once broken, can never truly be put back together.”

The door closed behind me, sealing away his unspoken words, and sealing away the six years he had so carelessly crushed.

I walked downstairs. The rain had started at some point, a fine drizzle on my face that was an icy, stinging cold. After just a few steps, hurried footsteps pounded behind me. He had chased me out, clutching my medical file in his hand. He must have brought it out in his panic.

“Chloe! I’ll take you to the hospital! Right now!”

He tried to grab me, his eyes brimming with panic. “I’ll have a colleague watch Elara. I’m worried about you...”

“No need.”

I pulled the medical file from his hand. “Dr. Davis, you should go save your patient. After all, in your heart, her life is far more important than mine.”

I turned and walked into the rain, not looking back. The footsteps behind me chased for a few paces, then stopped. I knew, without a doubt, his phone must have rung again.

The rain blurred my vision, blurring also that path that began in a library, a path I once believed would last an eternity.

I found out later that day, he *did* go back to the hospital. Elara Vance’s supposed “heart rate drop” was a complete fabrication; she’d just pulled out her IV and lied again.

Meanwhile, when I went for my dressing change at the hospital, the local anesthetic didn't work. The doctor slowly inserted the dilator, and I bit down so hard on the bedsheet, tears mixed with cold sweat drenched my pillow. The nurse said I didn’t make a sound the whole time, but my hands, gripping the bedsheet, had fingernails dug deep into my flesh.

They didn’t know that compared to the physical pain, the wound in my heart had already gone numb, long ago, each time he ran to someone else.