Chapter 5

The days in the hospital bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of pain medication and physical therapy. Cohen' s presence was sporadic, marked by brief visits filled with hollow apologies and distracted glances at his phone. He was physically there, but his mind, his heart, was somewhere else entirely. With Kiera.

I spent most of my time scrolling through my phone, a masochistic habit I couldn' t break. I watched their "100 Dates Challenge" reach its spectacular conclusion.

Date #100 was a national news story. Cohen had rented out the entire botanical garden, filling it with thousands of fairy lights. A string quartet played in the background. It was a scene ripped from a romance novel, broadcast live across all their social media platforms.

I watched on my small hospital screen as Cohen, dressed in a black tuxedo, got down on one knee. Kiera, in a flowing white dress that made her look ethereal, stood before him, her hands clasped over her mouth in a perfect picture of shocked delight.

The garden was filled with white hydrangeas, not wildflowers. A detail that twisted in my gut. He remembered her allergies, but he' d forgotten my favorite flower.

"Kiera," he said, his voice thick with emotion, broadcast to millions. "This journey with you has been a journey back to myself. I was lost without you."

Kiera' s eyes filled with tears as she looked at him, a picture of adoration.

It was a dream I once had. He' d promised me a proposal under the stars, surrounded by gardenias, my favorite. He' d promised me a future that he was now offering to another woman on a national stage.

The promises were ash in my mouth.

I turned off my phone, the silence of the hospital room pressing in on me. I was alone, nursing a broken arm and a shattered heart, while the man who put me here was celebrating his love for someone else.

The day I was discharged, Cohen' s driver was there to pick me up. Not Cohen. He was, the driver informed me, "preparing for a very important event tonight."

He drove me back to the penthouse. The moment I walked in, I knew. The air was thick with the scent of champagne and expensive perfume. Caterers bustled about, and a low hum of chatter came from the living area.

Cohen appeared, pulling me aside. "Aurora, thank God you' re here. I need you to get changed. We' re having a small get-together."

"A party?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Just a few friends and business partners," he said, forcing a smile. "To celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

He had the decency to look away. "Kiera' s full recovery."

I wanted to leave. I wanted to run. But Kiera herself appeared, blocking my path. She was glowing, her arm linked through Cohen' s, a proprietary gesture that staked her claim.

"Aurora! I' m so glad you could make it," she said, her voice dripping with fake sincerity. "We couldn' t have this celebration without you."

I looked from her triumphant face to Cohen' s pleading eyes. I was trapped.

"Fine," I said, my voice cold. I walked past them, my head held high, and went to my room.

From the fringes of the party, I watched them. They were the perfect couple, mingling with guests, laughing, touching. He would whisper something in her ear, and she would giggle, tilting her head back in a way that was both innocent and seductive. He' d adjust the strap of her dress, a casual, intimate gesture that spoke volumes. He' d never done that for me in public. He' d always maintained a certain distance, a professional propriety. With her, he was unguarded.

The pain was so intense it felt like a physical illness. I went to the bar and poured a glass of whiskey, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction.

Later, the party guests gathered for a toast. Kiera, holding a glass of champagne, initiated a game of "Truth or Dare." It was all very lighthearted until the bottle spun and landed on her.

"Truth!" she chirped.

A guest, one of Cohen' s smirking investors, asked the question everyone was thinking. "Kiera, your memory is back. So, tell us the truth. After all these years, are you still in love with Cohen?"

The room went silent. All eyes were on her.

She looked at Cohen, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She hesitated for a moment, a masterful pause for dramatic effect.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice breaking beautifully. "I never stopped loving him. Not for a single day."

The room erupted in applause and "awws." People clapped Cohen on the back. He beamed, pulling Kiera into a deep, passionate kiss as the crowd cheered.

It was a movie scene. And I was the out-of-focus extra in the background.

My glass slipped from my numb fingers, shattering on the marble floor. No one noticed. They were all watching the happy couple.

I turned and fled, escaping to the cold, sterile silence of the guest bathroom. I locked the door and slid to the floor, my back against the cool tile. The sound of their laughter and applause seeped under the door, a cruel soundtrack to my breakdown.

I cried until I couldn't breathe, my body shaking with silent, wracking sobs. I had lost. I had lost him so completely, so publicly.

I looked at my reflection in the chrome fixtures, distorted and broken. I saw a fool. A woman who had ignored every red flag, who had accepted every lie, who had let a man reduce her to this.

I stood up, turned on the shower, and stepped under the scalding water, clothes and all. I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the shame, the humiliation, the lingering scent of his betrayal.

It was a baptism by fire and ice. When I stepped out, shivering and drenched, something inside me had shifted. The grief had burned away, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve.

The humiliation was a poison, but it was also an antidote. It had killed the last vestiges of my love for him.