Chapter 3: Betrayal Written in Bruises

"He planned it all so well?"

"Ofc! How else could he fool her this long? Genius!"

Just like the comments predicted, a doctor wheeled Owen back in. My stomach lurched.

He looked perfectly calm, like nothing had happened. The doctor’s face was blank, but there was a flicker—guilt, maybe—in his eyes.

I asked the doctor, and he gave the same answer as the comments. I just stared at him, too tired to argue.

Holding back tears, I thanked him, got Owen settled, fetched water, and wiped him down. Each step felt like a performance, my hands shaking as I dabbed at his lips, noticing the split skin and the faint bruises on his neck. My whole body felt hollow, but I forced myself to finish.

I checked him over, biting my lip so I wouldn’t cry.

His lips were split. Hickeys on his neck. The so-called sweet heroine from the comments had left marks on his chest—more than one.

Everything lined up.

The truth hit me like a punch to the gut. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bruises, feeling the world tilt sideways. I tried to make excuses, but there was nothing left to tell myself.

I kept telling myself these were just coincidences. Owen would never lie to me. But now, every single "coincidence" was staring me in the face.

At this point, what was left to fight for?

My comatose husband, all for his so-called test, pretended to be out for two years, watched me struggle and sell everything to cure a condition he never had, and even cheated on me with another woman.

I should’ve seen the signs. How could someone bedridden for two years still have a perfect body?

Or why his face never got thinner?

Or why I kept catching a whiff of perfume in the room?

Or those weird red marks…

The clues were everywhere. I just didn’t want to see them.

I replayed every odd moment—sheets that smelled like someone else, nurses going quiet when I walked in, expensive skincare popping up out of nowhere. I’d blamed it all on stress, on wishful thinking. God, I was so blind.

It’s ridiculous. I gave him everything, while he just watched me suffer, calling it a "test."

A test? I let out a harsh laugh, then started to cry, hating myself for being so stupid, and hating Owen for being so cold.

The laugh bubbled up, sharp and ugly, until it turned into sobs. I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from screaming. My tears soaked the hospital blanket. I felt like a fool, but I couldn’t stop—couldn’t stop mourning the life I’d wasted.

Some comments called me pathetic, said I rushed back after my car wreck without even treating my wounds, sold everything for him because I really loved him.

"Some people kneel so long they can’t stand up anymore? Girl, get a spine. Just LEAVE!"

"Exactly! ML’s worth a billion. Side chick’s effort? LOL, she just wasn’t good enough!"

"She’s so fake! If you can’t see it, get your eyes checked. She only seems good now. Just wait—when she finds out and snaps, you’ll see how nasty she is!"

I laughed through my tears, the sound echoing in the empty room, too loud and too broken. I hugged my knees to my chest, searching for the girl I used to be—the one who thought love meant something.

I sold my grandparents’ life savings, quit my job, and stayed by his side for three years.

I thought we were just two regular people fighting for our lives, but I was nothing but a joke.

And some comments said I was deceived, but couldn’t have my own feelings?

Some people in the comments questioned things like I did, but they got shouted down.

"Isn’t it funny? Side chick didn’t play her part. Life’s a gamble, and she lost. Now she’s bitter and blames the heroine. If she’s not nasty, who is?"

"Just ‘cause Owen likes the heroine, she tried to run her over. Our girl never did anything to her!"

"What else? She can’t hurt the ML, so she blames the heroine!"

"Classic: evil side chick blames the heroine for her own mess. So gross!"

Female rivalry? Disgusting? Can’t blame the heroine?

I forced myself to calm down.

It’s true, I didn’t know this so-called heroine or what happened between her and Owen. I took a shaky breath, trying to push down the anger.

Owen lied to me for years; he could lie to anyone.

Now, I had to find out who she was, and whether she knew Owen was a liar—and that he already had a wife.

I didn’t make a scene. I just dressed Owen, packed my things, and went to get my wounds checked. Every movement felt automatic, like I was watching myself from outside my own body.

My hands were steady as I buttoned his shirt, tucking the sheets around him. For the last time. I gathered my things quietly, careful not to wake anyone else. It felt like shutting a door I’d never open again.

My injuries weren’t serious, just some scrapes. They looked bad, but just needed cleaning. I stared at the bandages, barely feeling the sting.

The nurse who treated me knew me. She looked at my wounds, hesitated, then just said softly:

"Ms. Morgan, your own health comes first. Please take care of yourself."

She pressed a bandage to my arm, gentle as could be. For a second, I almost broke down again. Someone actually worried about me, not just Owen.

I was startled and looked up, but she’d already turned away. I sat there for a second, feeling weirdly exposed.

Maybe because I now knew Owen was faking, even the nurse’s words felt like a hint. My mind spun with suspicion.

I shook it off.

I leaned against the wall and left the ER, the cool air stinging my face. My head throbbed, but I kept walking. I’d made it this far—I could keep going.

The hospital corridor was quiet at this hour. Just the hum of cleaning machines, the glow of vending machines down the hall. I paused for a second, letting the chill settle me. I was still here. Still standing.

Unexpectedly, I ran into an old college friend at the elevator. She looked just as surprised to see me.

"Hey, Ms. Morgan, weren’t you flying out to get a doctor for Owen? Why are you here?"

I blinked, caught off guard.

Her name was Emily Reyes. I’d only met her near graduation. She was bubbly and cheerful, and when she heard I was marrying Owen, she happily gave us a wedding gift. I invited her to the wedding.

On my wedding day, she brought a giant cake and said she wanted to be my best friend. She showed up in a bright yellow dress, arms full of balloons and a bakery box almost as big as she was. She insisted on photos, danced with my grandma, made everyone laugh.

I grew up with my grandparents in a small town, didn’t have many friends. When she wanted to be my best friend, I just let her.

After I got married and Owen had his accident, she often visited me in the hospital and brought things. Homemade cookies, crossword puzzles, fuzzy socks. She always seemed to know when I was down.

I remembered how kind she’d been. I always tried to be a good friend back.

I just didn’t expect to see her at this hour.

"It’s so late, why are you still here? Are you sick?"

I didn’t answer. I just asked her. She froze, then gave a nervous laugh. "I twisted my ankle on the stairs, so I came to get it checked. But wait, Ms. Morgan, you said you were flying out today. Why are you still here? And your…"

She looked me up and down.

Her eyes flicked over my scraped arms, the torn sleeve. For a second, she looked genuinely worried, but then she glanced away, fiddling with her purse strap.

The elevator doors opened, and I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall.

My face was pale, scraped, my hair a mess, eyes hollow. I looked forty-five, not twenty-five.

The hospital lights were brutal, showing every bruise and worry line. I barely recognized myself.

I didn’t expect that after just three years, I’d look like this.

Swallowing my resentment, I looked back at Emily: