Chapter 2

The hospital lights were too bright, making the throbbing in my head worse. A doctor had put three stitches in my scalp and diagnosed me with a mild concussion. He told me to rest.

I walked out of the emergency room, my hand pressed to the bandage on my head. As I stepped outside into the cool night air, I saw them.

Coleton was standing by his car, his arm protectively around Charly Mack. Her face was buried in his chest, her shoulders shaking with soft sobs.

"I' m so sorry, Coleton," she cried, her voice muffled. "I never should have left. I was just scared. I didn' t know how to handle it. But I never stopped loving you."

It was a lie. A beautiful, well-crafted lie. I had seen her at parties over the years, laughing and drinking with other men, never once asking about Coleton' s condition.

Coleton just held her tighter. "It' s okay, Charly. It' s in the past."

He saw me then. His expression flickered with something-guilt, maybe-but it was gone in an instant.

"Arminda," he said, his voice strained. "Are you okay?"

"I' m fine," I said, my own voice flat and empty.

Charly peeked at me from over his shoulder. "Oh, Arminda, I' m so sorry. I hope you' re not mad. Coleton and I... we have a lot of history." She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "He told me you' re just friends. I wouldn' t want to get in the way of... anything."

Coleton didn' t correct her. He didn' t defend the three years I had given him. He just stood there, silent, his arms still wrapped around the woman who had abandoned him.

Charly' s lips curved into a triumphant little smile, a smile only I could see.

I let out a short, bitter laugh. It was a sound that seemed to come from someone else.

"Don' t worry," I said, looking directly at Coleton. "You don' t have to worry about me at all."

I turned and walked away, not looking back.

The next morning, I went to the hospital' s administrative office. I had received a job offer months ago, from a prestigious rehabilitation clinic overseas. I had turned it down for Coleton. Now, I formally accepted it.

My flight was in two days.

I went back to the penthouse apartment Coleton owned, the place I had called home for three years. It was filled with memories, every corner holding an echo of our time together. The special railings in the bathroom, the ramp by the front door, the chairlift on the stairs. All things I had installed.

Methodically, I began to erase myself. I packed my clothes, my books, my toiletries. I took down the photos from the corkboard in the kitchen-pictures of his progress, of us laughing, of his first steps with the walker.

My fingers brushed against one particular photo. It was from a year ago, on his birthday. He was still in the wheelchair, but I had baked him a cake, and his friends had come over. In the picture, I was leaning down to light the candles, and he was looking up at me, a genuine, happy smile on his face. It was the smile that had made me fall in love.

With a deep breath, I took the photo and tore it into tiny pieces. I let them fall into the trash can like confetti.

It was over. I had to accept that.

My phone rang. It was Coleton.

"Hey, where are you?" he asked, his voice casual, as if nothing had happened. "I woke up and the house is empty. It' s weird."

I closed my eyes. "I had some things to do."

"Well, can you come by the office later? I have a board meeting, and I want you to check my posture. Make sure I look confident."

The request was so normal, so typical of the past three years. I was his physical therapist, his support system. His crutch.

"Okay," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

I went to his company, Barron Tech. The sleek, modern building felt alien to me now. I found him in his corner office, staring out at the city skyline.

Charly was there, of course. She was perched on the edge of his desk, looking like she owned the place.

"Oh, Arminda, you' re here," she said, her tone syrupy sweet. "I brought Coleton some lunch. It' s his favorite, from that little Italian place we used to go to." She gestured to a container of rich, creamy pasta on his desk.

My stomach clenched. I had spent years meticulously planning his diet, ensuring he ate healthy, low-inflammation foods to aid his recovery. That pasta was full of everything he wasn' t supposed to eat.

"Coleton, you shouldn' t have that," I said, my professional instincts taking over. "It' s too heavy. It will cause inflammation in your joints."

He waved his hand dismissively. "I' m fine, Arminda. I' m not an invalid anymore. I can eat what I want."

He took a large bite of the pasta, moaning in pleasure. "God, Charly, I' ve missed this."

The pain started in his stomach about twenty minutes later. He clutched his side, his face turning pale and sweaty. The rich food was too much for a system accustomed to a clean diet.

I said nothing. I just quietly placed a bottle of digestive enzymes and pain relievers on his desk.

Then, I turned and walked out of the office.

As the door closed behind me, I heard Charly' s voice, sharp and mocking.

"She' s just a glorified nurse, Coleton. Don' t let her boss you around. She should be grateful you even let her stay this long."

I leaned against the wall in the hallway, the sound of her words echoing in my ears. But what hurt more was what I didn' t hear. I didn' t hear Coleton defend me. I didn' t hear him say a single word.

That was when I knew, with absolute certainty, that he loved her. He loved her enough to let her poison him, to let her insult the woman who had saved his life. And I had been a fool to ever think otherwise.