Chapter 5

Mark drove away, his face a thunderous mask of frustration. Sarah knew he wouldn't come home. He would go to Emily, who would soothe his bruised ego and tell him how unreasonable Sarah was being. Sarah didn't care.

The gallery opening he had mentioned was that night. On a sudden impulse, she decided to go. Not with him, but for herself. Chloe and Jessica agreed to join her. It felt like a small act of defiance, of taking back a piece of her life that he had tried to control.

The gallery was crowded and noisy. The art was breathtaking, but Sarah found it hard to concentrate. The dull headache from the afternoon had intensified, and the press of the crowd made her feel dizzy and nauseous. She had a rare genetic condition, a type of severe vertigo that could be triggered by stress and crowded environments. She always carried medication for it, but she hadn't had a serious attack in years.

Just as she was telling her friends she needed to step outside for some air, Mark' s phone call came. It was from an unknown number, which meant he was blocked. Chloe answered. "Hello?"

It was Mark. His voice was frantic. "Is Sarah with you? Tell her Emily had an accident. She fell and hurt her ankle. I have to take her to the hospital."

Chloe relayed the message, her expression disgusted. "He wants you to know he's abandoning you at the gallery he promised to take you to because his girlfriend stubbed her toe."

Sarah felt a bitter, humorless laugh bubble up inside her. Of course. Emily needed him. The damsel was in distress. "Tell him I hope she feels better," she said, her voice weary.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Mark had promised Chloe before hanging up. A hollow promise, and they all knew it.

Sarah tried to enjoy the rest of the exhibition, but her body was betraying her. The room started to spin. The chatter of the crowd became a deafening roar. Black spots danced in her vision. She knew the signs. A full-blown attack was coming.

"I need my medicine," she gasped to Jessica, fumbling with her purse. Her fingers were clumsy, uncooperative. The little bottle of pills slipped from her grasp and clattered onto the floor, rolling under a large sculpture.

Panic seized her. She dropped to her knees, trying to reach it, but the world was tilting violently. She could feel herself losing consciousness. With a last, desperate effort, she managed to grab the bottle, fumbled the cap open, and dry-swallowed two pills. She collapsed against the base of the sculpture, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Slowly, very slowly, the world stopped spinning. The roaring in her ears subsided. She sat there on the cold marble floor, leaning against the sculpture, feeling utterly alone. She watched other couples walk by, laughing, holding hands, sharing a moment over a piece of art. The loneliness was a physical ache in her chest.

Mark did not come back. He didn't call. He didn't text.

He finally showed up at their house the next morning, looking tired but pleased with himself. He found her in the kitchen, drinking coffee.

"Sorry about last night," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Emily' s ankle was sprained pretty badly. I had to make sure she was settled in."

"I had an attack at the gallery," Sarah said, her voice flat. "A bad one. I collapsed on the floor. I could have hit my head. I could have choked."

She watched his face for any flicker of concern, of guilt. There was none.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sarah," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're fine, aren't you? Emily was the one who was really hurt. She was in a lot of pain. She needed me."

He was deflecting, minimizing her experience to protect Emily. He was making it clear who his priority was. Any remaining part of her that might have hoped for an apology, for a shred of remorse, died in that moment.

She just stared at him, her expression unreadable. She felt a quiet sense of resignation. There was nothing left to say, nothing left to fight for.

Her silence seemed to infuriate him more than any argument would have. "What is wrong with you?" he burst out, his voice rising. "Are you trying to make me feel guilty? Are you trying to manipulate me by pretending to be sick? Because it's not going to work!"

The accusation was so outrageously unfair, so disconnected from reality, that all she could do was look at him. He was blaming her for her own illness, accusing her of faking a medical crisis for attention, all because it competed with his girlfriend's minor injury. The man she had married was gone. This person was a stranger, a cruel, selfish stranger.