Chapter 4: The Heroine Wears My Face

"I got in a car wreck on the way to the airport and missed my flight. I can’t go."

"How could that happen? Can’t you reschedule?"

She sounded hopeful, almost eager—like she wanted me to try again. But I saw the flicker of relief in her eyes, just for a second.

Reschedule? Everything the comments predicted had come true. Rescheduling was pointless. I didn’t want to tempt fate again.

I didn’t answer. She kindly walked me back to Owen’s room, chattering the whole way.

She kept up a stream of small talk—asking about my injuries, offering to bring me tea. I nodded, barely listening, my mind spinning with suspicion.

And at that moment, I saw the comments again.

"Whoa, the heroine just left Owen, went downstairs, and ran into the side chick, who brought her back up. What a face-off!"

"This is so juicy. They just hooked up behind the side chick’s back, and now they’re meeting. Awkward!"

The so-called heroine in the comments was Emily Reyes?

My blood went cold. I didn’t want to believe it. My hands started to shake.

But when Emily moved a chair, I saw her neck. There were marks, fading into places I couldn’t see. She grabbed the cushion I always used and took my cup from my bag to pour me water—like she’d done it a hundred times.

The realization hit me hard. She moved around the room like she owned it, like she belonged. I watched her hands, steady and practiced. I knew.

All my anger strangely faded.

What was left to figure out?

The so-called heroine was Emily Reyes. The person who knew I was married to Owen but still got involved with him was the "heroine."

Maybe my stare was too cold, because Emily looked uneasy. She shifted, her smile slipping. "Ms. Morgan, is something wrong?"

"Look, the side chick’s glare is scary. Did she figure it out?"

"So what? Everyone knows how good Emily’s been to her these three years. If anyone’s to blame, it’s the ML for not controlling himself."

"Exactly, what’s wrong with Emily being brave for love?"

I couldn’t help but sneer. What kind of story was this?

They called someone who knowingly became a mistress an innocent woman who never hurt me? Called breaking up a marriage brave? And said if I fought back after learning the truth, I was just a jealous, nasty woman?

I shoved the thoughts aside, didn’t take the water Emily offered, just stared at the cup.

The cup trembled in her hand before she set it on the table. The silence between us stretched on. I could feel the betrayal in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"It’s nothing. It’s late, you should get back to campus."

Emily’s smile faltered. Seeing how rough I looked, she set down the cup and left. She lingered at the door, like she wanted to say something, then slipped out, footsteps echoing down the hall.

I looked at Owen lying in bed and said:

"Owen, I know everything. Stop pretending and get up!"

He was so deep in his act, he didn’t move a muscle.

I scoffed, not bothering to force him. What was the point?

My parents died young in a factory accident. My grandparents only taught me how to survive, not how to spot a lie.

My friends used to say I was slow. To be polite, they called me oblivious; honestly, I was dumb. I never cared before, but now I had to admit they were right.

If I weren’t so clueless, I wouldn’t have figured out so late that Owen and Emily were playing me, or given up my grandparents’ house and my parents’ settlement to treat Owen.

But even if I’m slow, my grandma taught me: if you make a mistake, fix it. If something’s rotten, throw it out.

Since Owen was rotten from the start, after enough suffering, I should throw him out.

Early the next morning, I went to Owen’s doctor to process his discharge and asked the hospital to refund all the fees I’d paid. I took a deep breath before walking in.

The receptionist looked at me, surprised, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I handed her a folder of receipts, my voice steady. For the first time in years, I felt like I was in control again.

The doctor was as shocked as Emily had been last night.

"Weren’t you going to get a specialist for Mr. Caldwell? Why are you discharging him now?"

I looked coldly at the doctor I’d known for three years.

He was the one who said he could cure Owen, which is why I stayed at this hospital. He’d always been diligent with Owen’s checkups. I used to think he was a good doctor, but now I saw he just helped Owen keep me around.

"Dr. Wallace, you know better than I do whether Owen is really sick."

He went silent.

His shoulders slumped, and he looked away. I wondered how many other women he’d lied to, how many lives he’d helped ruin.

Maybe I was so disappointed I could laugh now. The sound that came out was half-laugh, half-sob. I turned on my heel and walked out, feeling lighter with every step.

I didn’t wait for an answer. I went back to the room, packed my things, and left—without Owen. I also charged the phone I’d bought for him long ago and left it on the windowsill, making sure he’d see it when he woke up.

I took one last look at the room, at the bed where I’d spent so many nights praying for a miracle. I set the phone down, turned off the lights, and closed the door behind me for good.

My grandparents’ house had sold for $130,000, and with the $10,000 refunded by the hospital, I now had $140,000. I ran the numbers in my head, not sure what to do next.

At current prices, I could buy a tiny condo and still have some left, but I wasn’t in the mood. I just wanted to get away from Owen for good.

I found a cheap hotel to stay in. The room was tiny, smelled like bleach, but it was quiet. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city outside. For the first time in years, I was alone—and it felt like freedom.

I took out my marriage license with Owen and his ID, put them in a bag, and had them couriered to his hospital room. I stared at the envelope for a long time before sealing it.

I sealed the envelope, my hands steady, and wrote a note: "This is all that’s left. Don’t contact me again." I handed it to the courier, watching as he walked away, feeling a weight lift off my chest.

Owen realized he might’ve gone too far. When the doctor told him Morgan had processed his discharge, he thought it was a joke. But then, a courier delivered a bag to him.