Love, Lies, and a Fatal Dog

My world shattered with a frantic phone call: my mother had been attacked by a dog. I rushed to the emergency room, only to find her gravely injured, and my fiancé, Cohen, dismissive and annoyed.

He arrived in his expensive suit, barely glancing at my bleeding mother before complaining about his interrupted meeting. "What's all the fuss? I was in the middle of a meeting." He then shockingly defended the dog, Caesar, belonging to his childhood friend Hillary, claiming it was "just playful" and my mother "probably scared him."

The doctor spoke of "severe lacerations" and infection, but Cohen only saw an inconvenience. Hillary, the dog's owner, appeared, feigning concern while smirking triumphantly at me. Cohen wrapped an arm around her, declaring it "not your fault, Hillary. It was an accident." He then announced he was still going on his "billion-dollar business trip" to Zurich, telling me to send the hospital bill to his assistant.

Two days later, my mother died from the infection. While I was arranging her funeral, picking out her burial clothes, and writing a eulogy I couldn't read, Cohen was unreachable. His phone was off.

Then, an Instagram notification popped up: a picture of Cohen and Hillary on a yacht in the Maldives, champagne in hand, with the caption: "Living the good life in the Maldives! Spontaneous trips are the best! #blessed #zurichwho?" He wasn't on a business trip. He was on a lavish vacation with the woman whose dog had killed my mother.

The betrayal was a physical blow. All his promises, his love, his concern-all lies. Kneeling at my mother's grave, I finally understood. My sacrifices, my hard work, my love-all for nothing. He had abandoned me in my darkest hour for another woman. It was over.

Chapter 1

The phone call ripped through the quiet of my office. It was a neighbor, her voice frantic and high-pitched.

"Jaycee, it's your mother! You need to come quick! A dog... it attacked her!"

My world tilted. I dropped the pen I was holding, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. I mumbled something, a thank you or an affirmation, I don't remember. I just grabbed my keys and ran.

I found her in the emergency room. Her arm was wrapped in thick, white bandages, but blood was already seeping through, staining the cloth a terrifying red. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock and pain.

"Mom," I whispered, my voice breaking.

She tried to smile, but it was a grimace. "It's okay, Jaycee. I'm okay."

The doctor told me the wound was deep. They were worried about infection.

Just then, my fiancé, Cohen Bolton, arrived. He walked in, his expensive suit unwrinkled, his hair perfectly in place. He looked at my mother, then at me, and his brow furrowed slightly.

"What's all the fuss? I was in the middle of a meeting."

His tone was light, almost bored. It grated on my raw nerves.

"A dog attacked her, Cohen. It was Hillary's dog."

Hillary Peterson. His childhood friend. The woman who looked at me like I was something she' d scraped off her shoe.

Cohen's expression softened, but not with concern for my mother. It was relief.

"Oh, Caesar? He's just playful. Your mom probably scared him."

I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. Playful? The doctor had used the words 'severe lacerations'.

"He's a good dog," Cohen continued, patting my shoulder. "Hillary would never let him hurt anyone on purpose. Your mother shouldn't have been trying to pet a strange dog, anyway."

Rage, cold and sharp, shot through me. I looked from my mother's pale face to Cohen's dismissive one.

"She wasn't trying to pet him. He just lunged."

Hillary chose that moment to appear, her eyes wide with fake concern. She rushed to Cohen's side, ignoring me completely.

"Cohen, is she okay? I feel just terrible. Caesar has never done anything like this before. He's usually such a sweetheart."

She gave me a quick, triumphant smirk when Cohen wasn't looking. The look said, See? He'll always choose me.

Cohen wrapped an arm around her. "It's not your fault, Hillary. It was an accident."

He then turned back to me, his voice all business. "Look, I have that important business trip to Zurich tomorrow. I can't cancel it. Make sure the hospital gives her the best care. Send the bill to my assistant."

I felt a strange calm settle over me. It was the kind of quiet that comes before a storm.

"You're still going?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Of course. It's a billion-dollar deal, Jaycee. You know how important this is."

He didn't see the look in my eyes. He didn't see the tiny cracks in my heart starting to split wide open.

"Okay, Cohen," I said softly. "You should go."

He smiled, relieved that I wasn't making a scene. "That's my girl. I knew you'd understand."

He gave my shoulder another patronizing pat. "I'll call you when I land."

I watched him and Hillary walk away, his arm still around her shoulders as she dabbed at her dry eyes. I didn't say what I was thinking. I didn't say, Don't bother.

Two days later, my mother's condition took a turn for the worse. The infection had spread. Her fever spiked. The doctors were doing everything they could, but she was slipping away.

She died that evening.

The world went silent. The beeping of the machines stopped. The only sound was my own ragged breathing.

I tried to call Cohen. The first time, it went straight to voicemail. I tried again. And again. No answer. His phone was off. He must be on the plane, I told myself. He'll call when he lands. He promised.

The next few days were a blur of numb activity. I arranged the funeral. I picked out a casket. I wrote a eulogy that I couldn't bring myself to read. My mother had been so excited for the wedding. She had already bought her dress, a beautiful lavender one she said brought out the color of her eyes. Now, I was picking out her burial clothes.

My friends and family were furious.

"Where is he, Jaycee? Where is that bastard Cohen?" my cousin spat, his face red with anger.

I kept making excuses for him. "He's on a business trip. He doesn't know. He'll be devastated when he finds out."

I was lying to them. I was lying to myself.

The funeral was small and quiet, just like my mother would have wanted. I stood at her graveside, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. I felt hollow, scraped out.

After everyone had left, I stayed, staring at the freshly turned earth. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a notification from Instagram. A friend had tagged me in a post.

My fingers trembled as I opened the app.

The picture was bright and sunny. A yacht, a turquoise ocean, and two smiling faces. Cohen and Hillary. He had his arm around her, and she was laughing, holding a glass of champagne. The caption read: "Living the good life in the Maldives! Spontaneous trips are the best! #blessed #zurichwho?"

The photo was posted five hours ago. While I was burying my mother, he was on a lavish vacation with the woman whose dog had killed her.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I doubled over, gasping for air, my stomach heaving. The betrayal was a physical thing, a poison spreading through my veins.

It wasn't a business trip. It was all a lie. His concern, his love, his promises-all lies.

I knelt on the cold ground, my knees digging into the dirt. The screen of my phone was blurry with my tears. I looked at my mother's name on the simple headstone.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered, my voice raw. "I'm so sorry I let him hurt you."

I stayed there for a long time, the cold seeping into my bones. When I finally stood up, my legs were numb and stiff.

I looked at the picture one last time, at his smiling, carefree face.

"He's not worth it, Mom," I said, my voice clear and steady. "He's not worth you. He's not worth me."

I made a promise to her then, a silent vow. It was over.