Chapter 6

Dr. Sterling stared at the marriage certificate on his desk for a long time.

He stared so long I thought he was about to call security to escort me out.

"Chloe, I am a medical professional, not a matchmaker. I would never write such an absurd prescription," he finally said, his deep voice carrying an absolute, no-nonsense authority.

"Five years ago, after her brother Marcus died in that crash, Elena suffered from severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) complicated by severe claustrophobia.

At the time, she had zero emotional security and would only trust Julian.

My recommended treatment plan was clear: exposure therapy combined with family and social support to help her gradually break her unhealthy, pathological dependency on Julian."

He looked up, his gaze piercing.

"I emphasized "independence". I wanted her to heal. I never advised Julian to use a marriage as a shield to drag an innocent woman into this toxic mess as a human stepping stone."

"Family support," I let out a cold laugh, repeating the words. "Did that family support include me?"

"According to standard psychological intervention protocols, absolutely."

Dr. Sterling turned around, opened his locked filing cabinet, pulled out a dusty manila folder, and slid a consent form toward me.

"The core members involved in a patient’s support network must have full disclosure. As his fiancée back then, you should have been the very first person to sign this form."

On the signature line, Elena’s delicate, neat handwriting stood out.

The date was exactly one month before Julian and I registered our marriage.

It turned out that while I was happily preparing to step into the wedding chapel, they had already dug a bottomless pit, waiting for me to jump in.

"Before we initiated the treatment protocol, I strongly urged Julian to bring you in for a joint psychological assessment and counseling session," Dr. Sterling said, closing the folder with a sharp snap, clearly irritated.

"Julian promised me he would explain everything to you and obtain your full consent. I assumed he had done so."

"Oh, he did a wonderful job," I said, my lips curling into a bitter smile. "It was flawless. For five years, he used a fake night terror diagnosis to lock me out of his entire life."

Dr. Sterling fell silent.

His professional ethics prevented him from commenting too deeply on a patient’s personal life, but the genuine apology in his eyes was unmistakable.

"How is her condition now?" I asked.

"Two years ago, after systematic desensitization therapy, she met the clinical criteria for full recovery." Dr. Sterling tapped his fingers on the desk.

"The follow-up records are all in this file. Since her recovery, she has never returned for a check-up, nor has she undergone any physiological monitoring.

Every single 'episode' she has claimed since then has been based entirely on her own verbal reports."

I pulled the folded sheet of paper from my bag, unfolding the dense timeline of dates before him.

Three of her worst "relapses."

First: The second night of our honeymoon, when Julian smashed up the hotel room and booked an emergency flight back to Elena.

Second: The day I was diagnosed with mild depression and wanted to adopt a Golden Retriever for emotional support. On our way to the shelter, Elena had an "episode." Julian dumped me on the highway shoulder and sped off.

Third: The night I was hospitalized with a broken leg, suffering in agony, while he sat in my room whispering to her through his headset all night.

Every single episode landed precisely on a milestone where I desperately needed him, or when our relationship was about to take a step forward.

Dr. Sterling’s frown deepened as he scanned the timeline.

He didn't speak, but he pulled out his pen and quietly noted those three dates in his personal notebook.

"I can issue a certified medical statement confirming she was clinically cured two years ago," he offered.

"No need, not yet."

He looked at me, slightly surprised.

"A paper certificate is dead, but people are alive. I want her to prove it to me herself."

I folded the timeline sheet and put it back in my bag.

As I stepped out of the clinic, the bright afternoon sun hit my eyes, making me feel dizzy.

The red light at the intersection seemed to last forever. Standing amidst the bustling crowd, I listened to two college girls nearby excitedly discussing which concert they were going to attend over the weekend, their laughter bright and clear.

Five years ago, on our wedding day, the sun had been just as brilliant. I had stood on the steps, tipping my toes to adjust his tie, thinking our future was filled with endless, beautiful possibilities.

The days were indeed long—long enough for a man to stretch a cheap lie into a five-year-long drama without a single intermission.

I stood by the curb for a long time, then called my foley studio director to request an extended leave of absence.

Then, I turned around and walked straight into a professional emergency medical training center.

I signed up for an intensive, two-month closed training program: Advanced Cardiovascular Life Support (ACLS) and Psychological Crisis Intervention.

When I got home that evening, I slid the training center's admission letter under the master bedroom mattress.

Right next to it lay the severed padlock I had cut.

"Julian, Elena."

"You two have been putting on a show for five years. It's time for me to take the director's chair."