Chapter 4

Ethan watched from the doorway of the small room the store manager had provided.

The store' s doctor was checking my pulse.

He still looked suspicious.

He probably thought this was another one of my elaborate schemes.

I opened my eyes. The doctor, a kind-faced older woman, smiled gently.

"You fainted, dear. Low blood sugar, perhaps. And a nasty nosebleed."

I saw Ethan' s shadow. He was listening.

"Doctor," I whispered, grabbing her arm. "Please. Don't tell him anything else. Just say I'm fine. Stress, maybe."

I ripped the preliminary notes she' d jotted on a small pad from her hand and crumpled them before she could react.

She looked surprised, then understanding.

"Alright, dear. If that's what you want."

Marcus came in, his face etched with worry.

"Mrs. Hayes? Are you okay?"

He saw the crumpled paper in my hand, the doctor's expression.

He understood. He always seemed to.

"I'll tell Mr. Hayes you just need some rest," he said quietly. "Nothing serious."

I nodded, grateful.

A few minutes later, Ethan reappeared.

Marcus must have given him the "all clear."

His face was hard again, the brief flicker of concern gone.

"The doctor said you're anemic and stressed," he said, his voice flat. "Hardly surprising, given your lifestyle."

He tossed a bottle of water and a protein bar onto the small couch beside me.

"Eat something. I don't want you collapsing again and embarrassing me further."

A superficial gesture of care. More for his image than for me.

The lie about anemia was better than the truth. It bought me time.

The pain, however, was getting harder to manage.

I increased my medication dosage, knowing it was a losing battle.

The pills only dulled the edges, they didn't stop the relentless march of the disease.

Hiding it from Ethan was becoming a full-time job, an exhausting performance.

But what choice did I have?

He came home that evening with Isabelle Moreau on his arm.

She was wearing the shoes I' d "broken in."

They settled in the living room, Ethan pouring her champagne.

He called me out.

"Sarah, be a dear and fetch Isabelle a throw. She feels a bit chilly."

His voice was casual, but the command was clear.

I was the hired help.

My hands were trembling slightly as I fetched a cashmere throw.

As I draped it over Isabelle's shoulders, my vision blurred for a second.

I stumbled, catching myself on the arm of the sofa.

The throw slipped, landing partially on the floor.

"Clumsy," Ethan drawled, not even looking up from his phone. "Can't you do anything right?"

Isabelle giggled. "It's okay, Ethan. She's probably just tired from all her... efforts."

The cruelty was relentless. It was what I wanted.

But it didn't make it any less painful.