Chapter 5

Friday night, 7:00 PM.

I sat in my brand-new black silk dress at the best table in the rooftop restaurant, overlooking the city skyline.

At 7:20 PM, a text from Julian popped up.

"Elena's power suddenly went out. She's having a severe attack and crying hysterically. I can't leave her like this. Go ahead and order first, I'll get there as soon as I can."

I didn't order any food. I only asked the waiter for a glass of ice water.

By 8:00 PM, the waiter came over for the first time to ask if I wanted to start with appetizers.

By 9:00 PM, the couple at the neighboring table had finished their dessert and left.

When the waiter approached for the third time, his eyes were filled with blatant pity.

I told him I’d wait a little longer. He sighed softly and rearranged the dried flowers in the center of my table.

The ice in my glass had long since melted into lukewarm water, mirroring my once-burning hope, slowly cooling into dead, stagnant silence.

At 10:30 PM, the restaurant closed. The manager personally came over to apologize and helped me with my coat.

Outside, a torrential downpour had begun. I didn't call an Uber. I gripped my crutches and walked in the freezing rain for a full hour before reaching home.

Rainwater dripped from my hair down my collar, freezing me to the bone, but only three words echoed in my mind.

"Order first."

For five years, I had always been the one to go "first."

I was the first to compromise, the first to back down, the first to swallow my grievances, and the first to try and patch things up. I was always expected to wait for him to calm down, wait for her to get better, wait in a line where I was always placed last.

By midnight, I developed a raging fever, and the surgical wound on my leg began to throb and inflame.

When the thermometer hit 104°F, I dragged myself to the living room medicine cabinet, only to find Band-Aids and antiseptic wipes.

The fever reducers and antibiotics were in the guest room, where the house's only climate-controlled medical kit was kept.

Leaning against the wall, dragging my heavy, painful leg, I made my way to the heavy soundproof door.

It was locked from the inside. It didn't budge.

I pressed my ear against the wood. Through the thick foam and the heavy door, I could faintly hear his low, soothing voice. He was laughing softly, wrapped in a warm, cozy night meant for someone else.

I knocked three times.

I paused, then knocked three more times, harder.

No one answered. The low voice inside didn't even pause.

On the seventh knock, my hand froze in mid-air. I couldn't bring myself to drop it again.

My palm rested against the icy door. But the coldness of the wood was nothing compared to my completely dead heart.

I limped back to my room, changed into dry clothes, went down to the lobby, and hailed a cab.

At the ER, my IV drip ran until four in the morning.

When the nurse came to change the third bag of fluids, she watched me struggle to get to the bathroom on my own and couldn't help but ask, "Where's your family? How can they let you come here alone with a fever this high?"

"He's dead," I said quietly.

She froze, her expression shifting into a mix of shock and sympathy. She gently tucked the blanket around my shoulders and didn't ask another question.

The woman in the bed next to me, who was keeping her daughter company, saw how isolated I was and handed me her thermos.

"Have some warm water, dear. As women, we have to look out for ourselves. You can never truly rely on anyone else."

"Thank you," I murmured.

As I spoke that single word, a hot tear finally spilled over, splashing onto the back of my hand.

I watched the medicine drip down the plastic tube, drop by drop, until I finally drifted into a hazy sleep.

In my dream, I was counting.

But even when I reached a hundred, I was still the one left behind.

At 6:30 AM, I dragged my exhausted body back to our apartment.

On the shoe cabinet by the entrance sat an elegant insulated delivery bag from a Michelin-starred restaurant containing gourmet steak and pasta. The delivery slip was addressed to Elena's luxury apartment complex.

On the kitchen counter sat a pot of cold, leftover pasta.

A note was pressed under the lid. Five words, written in Julian's sprawling handwriting.

"Pasta’s in the pot. Reheat."

Both were pasta.

Hers was bought at a premium, delivered personally with care. Mine was yesterday’s leftovers, left for me to heat up myself.

The balcony door was slightly ajar, and Julian's voice drifted in with the morning breeze, so soft it made my stomach turn.

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'm bringing breakfast over right now. Did you sleep poorly last night? I’ll keep you company and take a nap with you later."

"Once her leg heals, I’ll move my things out of the master bedroom. I know these five years have been hard on you. She’s completely clueless anyway, easy to fool."

I stood by the entrance, still holding my crumpled ER billing receipt.

"Easy to fool."

So that was what my patience, my compromises, and my deep love meant to him. I was just stupid. I was just easy to fool.

I didn't make a sound. I didn't storm out to slap his face, nor did I throw the medical bills at him.

I simply walked back to my room, washed my face with freezing water, changed into a sharp, professional suit, and stepped into the elevator, my fever still hovering at 99.5°F.

At 9:00 AM, I walked into the City Mental Health Center’s psychiatric clinic.

I booked an express consultation with Dr. Sterling, the top specialist.

When my name was called, I walked in and slapped Julian’s medical folder and our marriage certificate onto his desk.

"Dr. Sterling," I said, my voice steady. "Five years ago, when you prescribed treatment for Elena, did you prescribe my husband, Julian, as her medication?"