I woke up from brain surgery. The first thing I checked was Julian's texts. "Julian, my surgery is tomorrow morning." "The doctors say it's serious." "If you're not here when I wake up, I think we're done." 24 hours later, there was still no reply. I scrolled up. Same pattern every time I went under. "Can't make it. My assistant will sign for you." "In a really important meeting." "You don't need to tell me about these things anymore." Eventually, he just stopped reading my messages altogether. Instead, he assigned me a personal assistant. Her only job was to stand in for Julian, signing the life-or-death legal documents. And that man, the one who's always "too busy"? He was all over Chloe's Instagram carousel. A nine-picture post, set against the sunset and private yachts of St. Barts. He and Chloe, heads pressed together, smiling. The caption read: "He always finds a way to make me laugh, again and again." And the timestamp? Two hours before I was wheeled into the operating room. I sent his assistant one last text: "You're fired." Then, I called my lawyer. "Draft the divorce papers." … As the anesthesia wore off, a throbbing agony pulsed from the incision in my skull. The pain tore me from sleep, night after night. The doctors had warned me that the chances of this surgery succeeding were slim. On the edge of consciousness, one thought consumed me. If I didn't make it through this, when would Julian find out I was dead? Probably when it was time to deal with my estate. After all, his time and energy were never wasted on a burden like me. That evening, my hospital room door creaked open. Julian walked in, carrying a ridiculously fancy insulated bag. "How are you feeling?" "Still breathing." "Okay." He completely missed the ice in my voice. He opened the bag, pulling out a glass container. "Brought you some cream of mushroom soup." In the rich broth floated slices of mushrooms, a golden sheen of oil on top. I'm violently allergic to mushrooms. Chloe, on the other hand, adores them. "Chloe got a nasty sunburn on the yacht. I dropped her off at the hospital to get it checked out," Julian explained, pouring a bowl for me. "It was pretty bad, her whole back was bright red." I just gave a flat, "Hm." "Aren't you going to eat?" he asked and leaned closer. I caught a whiff of expensive cologne—citrus and wood. Completely avoiding his question, I asked my own. "You changed your cologne?"
He paused, a small smile playing on his lips. "Chloe recommended it. She said it suited me. If you like it, I'll have her grab you a bottle." We'd been together for nearly a decade. He should remember I don't use scented products. Not perfumes, not even lotions. He should also remember that I shaved my head for this surgery. The shoulder-length hair I'd grown for three years, all gone. But he didn't notice any of it. Then again, the last time he was actually home was six months ago. My hair was still resting on my shoulders then. Too much time had passed. He forgot. The room went quiet. Only the steady beeping of the heart monitor filled the air. Then, a notification from his phone shattered it. "Oh, my assistant mentioned you told her not to come back?" He asked, his eyes glued to his phone as he typed. "She won't be needed anymore." "Well, good. I'm glad you're recovered." My hand drifted to my bare, stitched-up scalp. My voice was calm. "I'm not better. It's back. And I might need another surgery at any moment." He didn't look up. I took a deep breath, finally asking the question that had been haunting me. "Julian, do you still want this marriage?" A girl's bright laughter suddenly erupted from his phone. It was on speaker, sharp and clear in the quiet room. "Julian, look at this video, it's hilarious—" He instantly killed the volume and finally looked at me. "What did you say?" The beeping of the monitor felt like a countdown on our marriage. "So you went to St. Barts? The site visit is over?" I asked, changing the subject. His expression didn't flicker. "Chloe was dying to go to the coast. An investment opportunity came up there, so I took her with me." His head dropped, eyes glued back to the screen. Fingers flew across the glass one last time, and he stood up. His life was with Chloe, in a world of sunshine and laughter. While mine had become completely invisible. After the door clicked shut, my doctor handed me a folder. "Ms. Rodriguez, this relapse is more complex than we thought. I'd advise you to consider more advanced treatment options in Europe." A surgery three years ago damaged my optic nerve. My left eye is already completely blind. I stared at the papers for a long time. My good eye strained to make out the words. "Set it up."
Julian was supposed to pick me up on my discharge day. I sat on a bench by the hospital doors, waiting for him. Next to me was a canvas tote, holding my discharge report, medical records, and a bag of expensive targeted drugs. I pulled out my phone. Chloe had posted on Instagram again. Seven in the morning. A picture from a jog in Central Park, two figures from behind, one tall, one short. The caption: "Early birds get to see the sunrise kiss the city." Less than half an hour later, she posted again. The picture: breakfast on a sun-drenched balcony, set for two. The caption: "Mornings are best when you're being spoiled." The man who promised to pick me up was off living his vibrant life with her. At ten, Julian's black Porsche finally rolled up. The passenger-side window slid down, and there was Chloe's face. "Ella! Julian was just giving me a ride to the office." My legs were numb. The bag felt like lead. I swayed as I pushed myself to stand. Julian got out of the driver's seat, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the rear door. "Traffic was bad," he explained. I said nothing, just clutched my heavy bag of pills and walked over. Chloe leaned out the window, her gaze suddenly locking onto my left eye. "Ella, what happened to your eye?" she asked, tilting her head. "It's like… not really focusing? It looks so weird!" She stuck her hand out, waving it right in front of my face. "Can you even see this? How many fingers?"
Julian finally cut her off. "Her eyesight is really bad." "Oh…" Chloe pulled her hand back, looking awkward. I lost the sight in my left eye three years ago. A fact I'd told him at least ten times. He never remembered. Chloe hopped out of the car, leaning in with a curious smile. "Ella, what are all these medicines? Can I see?" Before I could answer, her hand was already reaching for my bag. I flinched back on instinct. The bag wasn't closed properly. Her touch sent pill bottles and boxes scattering across the ground. Tiny white pills rolled everywhere, disappearing into cracks and under the Porsche's tires. Julian's brow furrowed. He shot a look of pure annoyance at the mess. "Why can't you even hold a bag steady?" I crouched down, my head throbbing where the stitches had just been removed. My vision swam with black spots as I started picking up the pills one by one. Chloe knelt down too. "Ella, I'll help you—" She fumbled, and her hand came down, crushing several pills into dust. "Oh no, they're ruined! I'm so, so sorry, Ella…" Julian walked over, pulling her up from the ground, his voice suddenly gentle. "If they're crushed, they're crushed. Leave it. They're not worth much anyway." I slowly straightened up. "You're right. They're not worth much. Then she can go back and get the medication replaced." He glanced at his watch, his frown deepening. "That's not necessary. She meant well. Just go get another one yourself. Chloe's going to be late. I'm taking her now. I'll send the driver back for you." Chloe was already back in the passenger seat, waving at me through the window. "Bye, Ella!" Julian didn't even give me a second glance. He just got in the car. I thought I would cry. But my eyes were just dry and sore. My heart beat steadily and calmly. It was like watching a stranger walk away. And maybe, I realized, I really didn't care anymore.
Back at our penthouse in Manhattan, I pulled out the divorce papers. I signed my name on the final page: Ella Rodriguez. Then, I started to pack. Ten years of my life with him fit into a single 24-inch suitcase. On the nightstand sat a photo of Julian and me. It was from a charity gala three years ago. I had long hair that reached my waist, with an elegant bun on top of my head. He wore a Tom Ford suit, his smile devastatingly charming. I picked up the frame and flipped it over. A line of neat, almost taunting handwriting met my eyes: "Chloe was here." I stared at the words, then flipped the frame back over. I placed it face down, right on top of the divorce papers. His smile was frozen three years in the past. So was my long hair. My phone rang. It was Julian. He rarely called first. I answered. Loud music pulsed through the line. It sounded like some rooftop bar. I spoke first. "Julian, about the divorce papers—" He cut me off. "Chloe saw that painting of yours from the Venice Biennale." Of course. It was always for Chloe. I paused. "It's not for sale." "She really wants it. I'll pay a million dollars." "I don't like her. So I won't sell it to her." Two seconds of silence on his end. "Just name your price, Ella." I let out a soft laugh and set the phone face down on the table. The nightstand drawer was ajar. I slid it open, and there was our marriage certificate. A sticker photo of Chloe had been pasted right over my face. She was smiling, sweet as candy, flashing a victory sign. My face was completely covered. I remembered the day we got it. My hair was still thick and full. Julian stood next to me, smiling like a teenager in love. I remembered showing him what Chloe did, my voice cracking with tears. He'd given it a passing glance, brushing me off with a vague promise to replace it. "It's just a picture. Is it really that big of a deal? She's just young. Cut her some slack."
Three years. He never found half a day to replace it with me. His voice, cold and sharp, crackled from the phone I'd forgotten to hang up. "Chloe's not mature. She throws a tantrum when she doesn't get her way. Can't you just give in? If you won't sell, then maybe you don't need that studio after all. We'll talk when you've come to your senses." A bitter smile touched my lips. "Suit yourself." The sharp buzz of the dial tone echoed in the empty penthouse. In my left eye, there was only a permanent, unshakeable gray fog. And that old, familiar heartache washed over me like a slow tide. Everyone thought Julian was insane for wanting me. My diagnosis was a ticking time bomb. I had a moody artist's temperament and a cold, distant heart. I was hardly wife material. But he swore none of it mattered. He said he loved all of it—the quiet, the distance, everything. For the first time, I let myself believe I could actually love someone. But then what happened? He was always busy, always promising he'd be there "right after this project." Watching me wheeled into surgery, his look of pain turned to pity. And then, finally, to complete numbness. Eventually, he just stopped showing up at all. He missed so many appointments. Each time, I told myself he'd be there for the next one. Until the time I almost died in the operating room. As my consciousness faded, I thought I might never see Julian again. Never again see the boy who had been like moonlight in my dark life. When I woke up, only one thing mattered. I had to see him. I flew for twenty hours, connecting through cities to get to him in Paris. I pushed open the door to his hotel suite… And saw him gently blow-drying Chloe's hair, the two of them laughing. In that instant, I understood everything. He was neither too busy nor lost his passion for sharing his life. He was just sharing it with someone else. And for the first time in my life, I completely shattered.
I stormed over, yanked the plug from the wall, and slapped her hard across the face. Then I started smashing everything in that hotel room I could get my hands on. "How could you do this to me?! I almost died, do you even get that?!" Shattered glass sliced into my leg, warm blood trickling down, but I felt nothing. "Do you think I'm some kind of joke?! Is that it?!" He watched me like a spectator at a freak show, then scooped up the terrified Chloe and turned to leave. "Are you done? You need to calm down. This whole display… it's pathetic." I stood there, panting, trembling in the middle of the wreckage. The twenty-hour flight, the desperate need to see him after escaping death… In that one single moment, it all turned to ash. After that day, Julian stopped coming home. My calls and texts were silenced. I had to piece together his life from Chloe's Instagram stories. But when you were starved for love, you clung to the tiniest crumbs from the past. It was like clutching a melted piece of old candy in your fist. The wrapper fused to your palm, sticky and disgusting. But you couldn't bring yourself to throw it away. You remembered being hungry for so long, and you remembered how sweet it had once tasted. So you just kept squeezing it tighter. Squeezing until the syrup ran out from between your fingers. Until one day, you realized you didn't even have the strength left to make a fist.
Three days later, a text from Julian lit up my screen. "Be at the gala tonight. Eight o'clock." He never read my messages. The divorce papers were still unsigned. But I decided to go. I would end this face-to-face. I put on an elegant wig and slipped the signed papers into my clutch. The ballroom was a sea of glittering chandeliers and soft music. A blur of designer gowns and expensive perfume. I spotted Julian the moment I stepped inside. He was on the dance floor with Chloe nestled in his arms. Her steps were clumsy, and she kept stepping on his feet. But he just leaned in, whispering something with an indulgent smile. I watched them for a moment, then moved closer. Chloe pressed against his ear, her voice a perfect stage whisper. "You put Ella's gallery deal on hold for me. Isn't she going to be furious?" Julian didn't miss a step, just gave her waist a reassuring pat. "She's needy. A few empty words and she'll be fine." I stood at the edge of the dance floor, my blood turning to ice. Whispers started rippling through the crowd. Eyes darted from me to the intimate couple on the floor. "Isn't that his wife? Haven't seen her for a long time. Is she here to cause a scene?" "The way he dotes on that girl… it makes you wonder who the mistress really is."
The music faded. Julian finally looked up, letting go of Chloe. "What are you doing here?" She immediately laced her arm through his, a sugary smile aimed right at me. So that's how it was. She sent the text from his phone. I held Julian's gaze. "We need to talk." Chloe tugged at his sleeve, pouting. "Julian, the next dance is about to start—" He waved me off with a frown. "Whatever it is, it can wait until the gala's over." Suddenly, the chandeliers flickered and died. The ballroom was plunged into total darkness. A wave of startled gasps went through the crowd. In the darkness, a hand shot out, grabbing, yanking. A sharp, tearing pain ripped across my scalp. The lights flared back to life a second later. I looked down. My wig was on the gleaming marble floor. My shaved head, covered in nothing but dark stubble, was exposed. The scar, an angry pink gash from my forehead to behind my ear, was exposed for everyone to see. A dead silence fell over the room. Hundreds of eyes locked onto me, pinning me in place like spotlights. "Oh my god, how horrifying…" "No wonder Julian never brings her out. I'd be sick just looking at that." "What disease does she have? It's not contagious, is it…?" Then the flashes started. Phones raised, capturing my humiliation. A triumphant smirk played on Chloe's lips, though her voice was laced with fake concern. "Oh, Ella, I am so sorry… It was just so dark. I didn't mean to…"
She knelt down, picked up the wig, and offered it to me with fake concern. I just stood there, frozen. I didn't take it. Julian seized my wrist and started hauling me towards the exit. With my bald head exposed, he dragged me through the entire ballroom like a criminal. The whispers and camera flashes washed over me, a drowning tide of shame. The ride home was dead silent. Streetlights blurred past the window, casting flickering shadows on his stone-cold face. My mind was a complete blank, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking. For so long, I had buried the memory of those dark, sunless days. The chemo, the vomiting, the bald stranger staring back from the mirror. People whispered, "Stay away from her." Then Julian appeared. He shaved his head too, shielding me from all the pitying stares. He said, "Don't be afraid. I'm right here with you." And now, he was the one shoving me right back into that same hell. Back at our apartment, he poured me a glass of water. "The PR team is already handling it. None of the photos or videos will get out." I said nothing. "Don't worry about it. I'll make sure no one talks." I blinked my dry eyes. "Does that include Chloe? She's the one who sent the text." He frowned. "The lights were out. She couldn't see anything. She's not like that." Silence. A button on his cuff was loose, and from his collar peeked a red, woven bracelet. Was that a matching one? The same kind Chloe wore? "Are you really this blind, or are you just choosing not to see?" I asked. "A Wall Street genius can't see through a pathetic little trick like that?" The living room was silent for a few seconds. Then his phone rang. Her voice, thick with crocodile tears, echoed through the quiet space. "Julian… Is Ella mad at me…? I really didn't mean to… I can apologize tomorrow, okay…? Please don't be angry with me… I'm so scared…"
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