THE HOSPITAL CRUELTY

~CLAIRE’S POV~

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The steady beeping of the monitors brought me back to consciousness. Each electronic sound reminded me that I was still alive, even though I felt empty inside.

I felt sharp pain in my side, but it was nothing compared to the pressure on my chest. Tubes connected to my arm delivered clear liquid that dripped steadily.

But none of that came close to seeing Richard in the chair beside my bed.

He looked like he was at a business meeting. He wore a perfectly pressed Armani suit and shiny Italian leather shoes. His fingers tapped impatiently on his knee.

When he noticed I was awake, he checked his fucking Rolex.

“Finally.” The word hit me like a slap across the face.

Finally. Like I had been unconscious just to bother him.

My throat felt raw. “What happened?”

“Appendicitis. Emergency surgery.” His voice was as dull as a company earnings report. “The doctor said if I had waited another hour to bring you in, you could have died.”

‘Could have died.’

The words should have made him reach for my hand, kiss my forehead, and tell me he was terrified of losing me. Instead, they fell from his lips like he was discussing the weather.

“How long have I been here?”

“Twenty-six hours.” Another glance at his watch. Always checking, always calculating, always somewhere else.

Twenty-six hours. Long enough for reality to come crashing back.

The memory hit me with shattering force. Monica on top of my husband. In our bed. Her head thrown back in ecstasy while Richard gripped her waist like she was salvation itself.

The way he had looked at me when he had seen me in the doorway—not guilty, not sorry. Just annoyed.

Like I was the intruder in my own marriage.

“Richard.” My voice cracked on his name. “We need to talk about what happened. About Monica. About us.”

I reached for his hand, needing some kind of connection. But he pulled away before I could touch him, like my fingers were contaminated.

“You’re right,” he said, and for one foolish heartbeat, hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe he’d realized what he’d done.

Maybe….

“We do need to talk.”

Then he reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Crisp white paper. Expensive stock. The kind lawyers used when they wanted to make sure you understood the gravity of what you were receiving.

My blood turned to ice.

“What is that?” But I already knew.

“Divorce papers.” He set the envelope on the bedside table like he was delivering a business proposal. “My lawyer had them drawn up this morning.”

The words didn’t make sense. That would mean he had been planning this while I was unconscious, while I was fighting for my life.

“You had them drawn up this morning? While I was in surgery?”

“I had to be practical, Claire. This situation needs to be handled quickly and quietly.”

‘Situation.’

Our marriage.…three years of shared dreams and whispered promises—had become a situation to be handled.

“I want this done efficiently,” he continued. “No drawn-out proceedings. No messy court battles. Clean and simple.”

Clean and simple. Like three years of loving him could be erased with a signature.

“Richard, please.” The words tore from my throat. “Yesterday morning you told me you loved me. You kissed me goodbye. You said….”

“Yesterday morning I was trying to be kind.”

‘Kind.’ He thought lying to me was kindness.

“I don’t understand. What about our marriage? What about the life we built together? The plans we made?”

“What life?” The question came out sharp enough to draw blood. “You mean the life where you cling to me like a fucking parasite? Where you have no identity except being my wife? Where you suffocate me with your desperate need for constant validation?”

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