Chapter 3

The day I was discharged, Mark didn't come. Instead, he sent a courier. The man stood awkwardly in my hospital room, holding a box.

"From Mr. Evans," he said.

Inside was a cheap set of pots and pans. A note was attached. "Jessica's kitchen isn't set up yet. Cook her a meal. She likes risotto."

I stared at the box, my hands trembling. He wanted me, his burned and injured wife, to go home and cook for his mistress. The public humiliation was the point. He wanted me to feel worthless, to see my only value as a domestic servant for the woman he had chosen over me.

I took a taxi home. The walk from the curb to our apartment building felt like miles. Each step sent a jolt of pain through my body. I was cold, exhausted, and utterly alone.

When I finally unlocked the door to our apartment, Mark was there, pacing. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't help me with my bag.

"Where have you been?" he snapped. "I sent those pans hours ago. Is it too much to ask for you to do one simple thing? Jessica is hungry."

I just looked at him, my mind numb.

Jessica then appeared from the apartment next door, a silk robe wrapped around her. She feigned a look of concern.

"Oh, Mark, don't be so hard on her," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have mentioned I was craving risotto. Sarah, you look so tired. I feel terrible."

Mark immediately softened, turning to her. "It's not your fault, Jess. You've been through a trauma." He shot a glare at me. "Some people just don't understand responsibility."

He then walked over to her, placing a comforting hand on her arm. I saw it all. The easy intimacy, the shared glances. They were already a couple.

I turned away, heading towards our bedroom, needing to escape their suffocating presence. As I passed the kitchen, a force of habit made me glance at the trash can. On top of a pile of takeout containers, I saw it: a receipt from a high-end lingerie store. It was dated two days ago.

A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to grip the doorframe. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up.

I splashed cold water on my face, looking at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes hollow. I placed a hand on my still-flat stomach.

"We're getting out of here," I promised my baby. "I'll get us out."