After a night of intimacy, my battalion commander husband pulled up his pants and vanished for three days. The next time I heard news of him, it was a celebratory announcement from military command. Arthur Vance had been awarded a first-class merit. Only then did I learn that his disappearance over the past few days was to rescue his childhood sweetheart. Rumor had it that when he returned, he was covered in injuries and had nearly died. The following day, Private Chen, a communications orderly, hurriedly pushed open the door to our base housing: "Dr. Miller! The Commander is refusing to let us treat his wounds at the medical tent. The pain is unbearable, but he says he only wants the soothing tea you make." For Arthur, this was a rare display of weakness. I huddled on my cot, flipping through a combat trauma care manual, and didn't even look up: "I don't know how to make it." Private Chen paced anxiously: "The Commander got hurt providing cover for a comrade!" "Cover for whom? Emily Davis?" I cut him off. "She was there, wasn't she? Tell her to do it." Over the next few days, Arthur's subordinates took turns trying to persuade me. "Ma'am, there's no such thing as an overnight grudge between husband and wife." "The Commander has been thinking of you constantly." My answer remained the same: "I don't have time. Go find Emily." ... When Arthur finally returned, it was the evening of the third day. He stood in the doorway, his face pale, suppressing a storm of anger and confusion in his eyes: "Chloe, are you really this cold-hearted?" I turned to meet his gaze, my tone flat and icy: "Isn't Emily taking care of you? Why should I go make a mess of things and be an eyesore?" Arthur's chest heaved violently: "Are you still holding a grudge about last time?" Holding a grudge? I was in emergency surgery for four days. The shrapnel in my abdomen was two millimeters away from my kidney. And in his mouth, it had become "holding a grudge." At the time, a sudden firefight broke out at the border. As the unit's embedded medical officer, I was treating the wounded on the front lines. A stray bullet hit nearby, and the blast wave threw me to the ground. Blood poured from my abdomen. The comms channel was filled with the hoarse shouts of my comrades, but Arthur, who was at the command post barely a hundred yards away, never moved. I found out later that Emily had suffered an asthma attack at the rear camp. He abandoned the defensive line during an intense firefight, scooped her up, and rushed her to the medical tent. A week later, I was transferred to a regular ward. Arthur pushed the door open in his combat uniform, impatience knitting his brows: "Chloe, are you done playing the martyr?" He threw a bag of cold steamed buns onto the nightstand, his tone rigid. "The doctor said it missed your vitals, so stop hogging a bed. The camp is swamped; no one has the free time to orbit around you all day." I looked down at the blood-soaked bandages on my abdomen. Every breath pulled at my nerves with a sharp ache. Seeing me silent, Arthur's frown deepened: "Will you only be satisfied when the whole battalion thinks I'm mistreating my wife?" "Emily has a weak constitution; she can't handle shocks." "You're a combat medic. You see life and death all the time. Is it really necessary to cling to a minor injury like this?" My heart felt like it had been thrown into an ice cellar, the chill piercing my bones. I looked up at him, my eyes as still as stagnant water. Arthur froze. Suddenly, the two-way radio on his belt crackled to life, and Emily's tearful voice came through: "Arthur, I think I hear movement outside the camp... I'm so scared..." Arthur's tone instantly softened enough to wring water from it: "Don't be afraid. Lock the door. I'll be right there." Cutting the comms, his gaze returned to its cold, hard state when he looked at me. "Process your own discharge. Emily needs someone with her." I lowered my eyes, staring at the bruised puncture marks on the back of my hand from the IV lines: "Go ahead." Arthur was enraged by my indifferent demeanor. But ultimately, his concern for Emily won out. He turned and strode away, leaving the hospital room in dead silence. I pulled out my IV needle and dialed the recruitment office for the International Rescue Corps. The voice on the other end was filled with joy: "Dr. Miller, you've finally decided! The final roster for the rescue medical team hasn't been submitted yet, so there's plenty of time for you to join. But this deployment is for at least five years, stationed in active conflict zones. It's incredibly dangerous. What about your family..." I looked out the window at the dark, oppressive clouds, a storm brewing: "I accept. This is a personal decision and has nothing to do with my family." After a pause, I added, "He and I will soon have no relationship anyway." My lawyer was extremely efficient. Half an hour later, the digital copy of the divorce agreement arrived in my inbox. Years ago, to reassure me about following him on deployments, Arthur had signed a blank agreement, giving me the freedom to leave at any time. I twitched my lips into a cynical smile. I hadn't expected this day to come so soon. Chapter 2 The next day, military command held a victory banquet at the guest house. Amidst the clinking of glasses, no one noticed that I, the wife of the honored commander, was as pale as paper. Emily, as a special guest, sat beside Arthur, obediently pouring drinks for the high-ranking officers, looking very much like the lady of the house. Suddenly, Emily let out a low gasp, drawing everyone's attention. She was holding a fountain pen; the nib was bent, and ink had stained the hem of her uniform skirt. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Emily's eyes reddened as she looked at me timidly. "I saw this pen drop on the floor and wanted to pick it up, but I accidentally stepped on it... Chloe, please don't be mad at me?" It was my father's memento. He had been a peacekeeping medical officer. After he died in the line of duty, this was the only thing he left me. I valued it more than my life and never allowed anyone else to touch it. I abruptly stood up, walked over quickly, and with trembling hands, picked up the deformed pen. "It's just an old pen." Seeing my face change drastically, Arthur instinctively shielded Emily behind him. "I'll buy you a new one later." My usually gentle eyes were now bloodshot: "This is what my father left me. Arthur, you know that." Arthur was momentarily stunned by my glare, a trace of panic flashing in his heart, Which was immediately covered by the annoyance of losing face in public: "Emily didn't do it on purpose. Why are you being so aggressive and ruining the mood for everyone?" I clenched the fountain pen tightly, the broken nib piercing my palm. Blood dripped through my fingers: "Fine, I won't hold a grudge. Have her drink this glass of alcohol, and we'll call it even." I pointed to a full glass of high-proof liquor on the table. Emily's face went white, and she clutched her chest: "Arthur, my heart isn't good, I can't drink..." Arthur's eyes completely iced over: "Chloe, you know her body can't handle it!" He slammed the glass down heavily in front of me, "You want someone to drink it? You drink it for her. Drink it, and we turn the page." The entire room fell dead silent. Everyone knew my stomach had been severely injured. During the last mission, just a drop of alcohol had triggered massive internal bleeding, and I had barely survived after emergency resuscitation. The doctor's orders were explicit: absolute prohibition of alcohol. Arthur glared at me: "Are you going to drink or not? If not, get out, and don't ever come back." He was certain I wouldn't leave, certain I couldn't bear to give up these five years of life as a military spouse. But I smiled. A smile that made Arthur's heart skip a beat for no reason. "Alright. I'll drink it." I picked up the glass and downed it in one gulp. The strong liquor burned my esophagus and stomach lining. All color drained from my face, and cold sweat broke out. I put the blood-stained fountain pen into my pocket, my voice so light it seemed it would dissipate: "Arthur, this is the last time." "Not just for forgiveness, but also the last time in these five years that I will degrade myself." Violent cramps made my vision go dark. I gritted my teeth, not letting out a single groan. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the approval notification from the Rescue Corps: "Comrade Chloe Miller, your application has been approved. Please report to the airport for assembly at 9:00 AM this Friday." Chapter 3 I turned off the screen and, under Arthur's complex gaze, turned and walked out of the banquet hall. Severe stomach pain hit me. I leaned against the revolving door and collapsed to my knees. When I woke up again, I was in the IV room of the military hospital. The door pushed open, and Arthur walked in carrying an insulated lunchbox. His eyes were heavily bloodshot, looking as if he hadn't slept all night. "You're awake? I brought you some soup." He sat on the edge of the bed and tried to take my hand, but I silently pulled away. Arthur's hand froze in mid-air, then slowly retracted: "The doctor said you need bed rest. I've handed over camp duties to the deputy commander. I'll stay with you." "I was speaking in anger last night. I didn't know you were hurt this badly. Why didn't you say anything?" I looked at him with the unfamiliarity of a stranger. Arthur began to panic, desperately wanting to grasp onto something: "Chloe, when you're better, let's have a child." "Didn't you always want one before?" "I asked the doctor. Emily can't have children. We'll have one, and let her be the godmother." I froze, then laughed out loud, the vibration pulling at the cramps in my stomach: "Arthur, forget about the child. I don't want my child calling someone else 'mother'." A familiar frustration surged in Arthur's heart. He felt he had already bowed his head and compromised, yet I was still being unforgiving: "Chloe, do you have to be so prickly with every word? I'm willing to make it up to you. What more do you want?" I didn't answer, my gaze falling on the calendar by the bed. Three more days. On the day of my discharge, Arthur specially drove a military vehicle to pick me up: "There's an academic military commendation ceremony today. Command specifically asked for you to attend." "Your previous 'Modified Protocol for Emergency Treatment of Battlefield Trauma' is highly regarded by the higher-ups." A ripple finally appeared in my dead eyes. That paper was the result of my blood, sweat, and tears, born from eight months of analyzing thousands of field medical records. Arriving at the auditorium, Arthur left me backstage: "Wait here a moment. I'm going to the front to make arrangements." I stood behind the curtain, listening to the thunderous applause from the front as the host's enthusiastic voice echoed: "Now, please welcome the winner of this year's 'Strong Army Cup' academic gold medal, Comrade Emily Davis, to the stage to share her award-winning paper, 'Modified Protocol for Emergency Treatment of Battlefield Trauma'!" My mind went completely blank. On the large screen's presentation, every chart, every data annotation, even the rough sketches in the margins of the manuscript, were exactly the same as my paper. That was my life's work, but the author was listed as Emily. I don't know how I walked onto the stage, but I snatched the microphone: "This paper is mine! The raw data is on my computer, and the experimental logs are in my filing cabinet. Emily, you can't even pronounce the basic terminology correctly, and you dare to accept this award?" Chapter 4 Emily's eyes instantly turned red, tears falling: "Chloe, I know you're jealous that I get to stay at headquarters, but I stayed up all night researching and writing this paper. How can you lie just to frame me?" "Whether it's a lie can be easily verified." I looked toward the commanders' seats. "I request a thorough investigation by military command!" "Enough!" Arthur snatched the microphone, shouting sternly. He stood in front of Emily, facing the audience, his tone pained but firm: "Commanders, comrades, I am deeply sorry." "My wife, Chloe, was injured in a recent border skirmish. The massive blood loss caused severe PTSD, making her mental state unstable. She frequently experiences memory confusion and persecution delusions. The doctors have recommended involuntary psychiatric treatment." A wave of realization washed over the audience. Looks of suspicion turned to sympathy and pity. I stood rooted to the spot, looking at Arthur's righteous face, feeling the blood in my veins turn ice cold. "Arthur, to pave the way for her, you would crush my reputation and my career?" "This is what you owe her." Arthur turned off the microphone, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "Chloe, Emily has a weak constitution. This staff position will give her the best medical coverage. You're already a key medical officer; this award is just icing on the cake for you, but it's a lifeline for her. Learn to be accommodating, don't you understand?" He raised his hand, and two guards rushed forward, grabbing me by each arm. Arthur ordered: "Take Dr. Miller to the break room and contact the specialists at the mental health center." I didn't struggle, letting the guards escort me off the stage. Arthur, since you say I'm sick, then I'll give you exactly what you want. The public relations department moved swiftly. To protect the reputation of Emily, the rising star of military command, a bulletin with blue text on a white background swept the internet half an hour later. [Statement regarding the inappropriate words and actions of military medical officer Chloe M. at the commendation ceremony: Comrade Chloe M. was recently injured in the line of duty and has been diagnosed with severe PTSD, resulting in cognitive bias and emotional loss of control. Our department has decided to suspend her duties for treatment. We deeply apologize to Comrade Emily Davis, who was affected by this incident.] Overnight, I went from being the youngest key medical officer at command to a universally condemned lunatic and jealous woman. My personal social media accounts were overrun, my direct messages filled with filthy insults. Outside the military command building, angry netizens and supporters of Emily blocked the gates. Arthur shielded Emily as they walked toward a military vehicle, surrounded by an anti-riot squad. I carried a cardboard box containing my personal belongings, following alone behind them. Someone recognized me. A shout triggered a commotion. A plastic water bottle struck my forehead hard, followed by a shower of rotten cabbage leaves and eggs. In the shoving, I fell on the steps, my palm pressing into shattered glass. It was a broken picture frame. These hands of mine, used to holding a scalpel, were instantly covered in blood. Sitting inside the armored vehicle, Arthur saw this scene through the dark tinted windows, his heart suddenly feeling like it was tightly squeezed. "Arthur, I'm scared." Emily trembled, shrinking into his embrace. "Those people are terrifying. Will Chloe be okay?" Arthur withdrew his gaze, suppressing the inexplicable twinge of pain in his heart, and said coldly: "Drive. It's good for her to learn a lesson, so she knows her place in the future." The car sped away, leaving a cloud of dust. I watched the familiar olive-green SUV disappear around the corner, feeling no anger, not even pain. I slowly stood up, brushing the dirt from my clothes. The blood from my forehead ran into my eye, bathing the world in a sea of red. I pulled out my phone, glanced at the issued e-ticket, and then looked at the divorce agreement in my hand, already signed and finalized. I flagged down a taxi, my voice hoarse but calm: "Driver, to the airport." Chapter 5 It wasn't until late the next afternoon that Arthur realized Chloe was missing. The aftermath of the victory banquet had escalated far beyond his expectations. Although public opinion online was controlled, an internal military investigation had been launched. He used his connections to suppress the initial inquiry into Emily's paper, the price being a promise that Chloe would "quietly recuperate" and cause no further trouble. He thought this was just another cold war, that Chloe would eventually digest her grievances in silence and return to him, just like before. He drove to the guest house. The room was excessively tidy. Her military uniform lay flat on the bed, the arm patch placed squarely on top, like a silent farewell. No note, no text message. He called her phone; it was turned off. An unfamiliar panic gripped him. He drove to the military hospital; the nurses told him Dr. Miller had discharged herself at noon yesterday. He contacted her possible comrades and friends; no one had any news. Finally, he had no choice but to use his clearance to check transportation records. He found a record of a taxi ride from the city to the airport yesterday evening, along with blurry security footage from the airport. She was wearing an unfamiliar jacket, a wound on her forehead, her back resolute as she walked toward the international departures channel. "Investigate! Find out where she went! Which flight she took!" He roared into the phone, his temples throbbing. The results arrived in the evening: Chloe had taken Turkish Airlines Flight TK21, transferring through Istanbul, with her final destination being a war-torn border city in northern Syria. Travel records showed she had left the country as a "member of a Doctors Without Borders medical rescue organization." Arthur gripped the thin sheet of printer paper, his knuckles turning white. He remembered vaguely hearing that she was contacting international rescue teams, but at the time, he thought she was just acting out of spite. He never imagined she would actually leave, let alone go to a place like that. "Arthur, don't worry too much." Emily had appeared in his office at some point, holding a cup of hot tea, her voice soft. "Chloe is probably just in a bad mood and went out to clear her head. With that kind of rescue team, she'll probably suffer for a few days and come back on her own." Arthur didn't take the tea. Staring at those distant, dangerous coordinates on the paper, his heart felt like it was being squeezed tightly by an invisible hand, a dull ache making it impossible to breathe. Clear her head? Going to a place ripped apart by artillery fire to clear her head? That was absolutely not something Chloe would do, unless... she truly had no intention of coming back. "About the paper, the investigation team..." Emily probed, a hint of unease in her eyes. "It's been suppressed for now." Arthur's voice was hoarse, carrying an exhaustion he didn't even realize. "Keep a low profile for the next few days. Don't provoke her anymore... don't draw any attention." Emily nodded obediently, placing the teacup on the desk, her fingers seemingly accidentally brushing against the back of his hand: "I know. It's all my fault for dragging you and Chloe down. When she comes back, I will definitely apologize to her properly..." Come back? Arthur jerked his hand away, a sudden surge of irritability making his tone harsh: "Go back. I have things to do." Emily's eyes reddened. She bit her lip aggrievedly, turned, and left. The office returned to silence. Arthur walked to the window. Outside was the familiar scenery of the camp—the sound of drills, marching footsteps, everything as usual. Yet he felt as if a massive void had opened up somewhere. That base housing apartment—the one that always had a small light on waiting for him, where even if he returned covered in the smell of gunpowder, she would silently hand him a cup of warm water—would there never be anyone there again? He thought of her pale face lying in the hospital bed, the resolute look in her eyes when she drank the strong liquor at the banquet, her indifferent expression when she was knocked to the ground... He used to think she was resilient, understanding, even a bit submissive. But now, stringing those images together pieced together a Chloe he had never truly known. A Chloe who, after her heart had died, quietly detached herself from everything, too lazy to even offer hatred. "Chloe..." he murmured the name, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. A delayed, immense panic, mixed with sharp, piercing pain, finally penetrated the heart he had kept wrapped in discipline and duty for years, surging forth relentlessly.
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