Chapter 2

When I opened my eyes again, three days had passed.

My mother was holding my hand, wiping tears from her face, muttering under her breath, "You're awake—thank God. If you hadn't woken up, I would've gone with you..."

"Mom," I rasped, the breathing mask muffling my words. "Don't... say things like that."

Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair disheveled—a far cry from her usual put-together self. This accident must have terrified her.

The room was quiet, save for the soft beeping of monitors and the shallow sound of our breathing. My body felt like it had been ground to pulp—every nerve screamed in agony, and I almost wished I could pass out again.

"Jim, tell me the truth—have you and Blaire been fighting?"

My mother's expression darkened, her voice laced with disapproval. "You were in critical condition, and when I called her, she made some excuse about overtime and didn't even bother to show up."

Even though I'd already made up my mind to divorce Blaire, those words still sent a dull ache through my chest.

I closed my eyes, my thoughts tangled.

After a long pause, I finally said, "Mom... I'm going to divorce her."

"What?" Her face filled with disbelief.

The look in her eyes made me feel ashamed.

Back then, she'd never approved of Blaire. She thought Blaire was mediocre in both looks and ability, came from a modest background, and wasn't even in the same league as our family. But I'd been head over heels, and no one could talk me out of it.

Eventually, my mother caved.

And now, we'd only been married for three years...

My mother's voice trembled with worry. "Jim, marriage isn't a game. If Blaire heard you say that, she'd be heartbroken."

Heartbroken?

I let out a bitter, silent laugh. She wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over me.

"Mom, don't worry about this for now. Can you help me find my phone?"

I'd been out for days—there had to be a mountain of work piling up at the company.

"Your phone was destroyed in the crash. I'll have my assistant bring you a new one this afternoon."

"Mom, you've been through so much these past few days. Go home and get some rest."

After convincing her to leave, my assistant arrived with the new phone.

I popped in my SIM card and powered it on. A flood of missed calls and text messages came pouring in.

Over the three days I'd been in the ICU, Blaire had sent me dozens of messages.

Blaire: [Jim, please, just five thousand dollars. You can't let Dustin, who's dying of a terminal illness, get kicked out of the hospital and left to die, can you?]

Blaire: [I admit I said a lot of cruel things on the phone last time. If you're willing to lend Dustin the money, I'll apologize.]

When I didn't respond, her tone turned vicious.

Blaire: [Jim, remember what you said when you got down on one knee? That you'd treat me well for life and never let me suffer? What a joke. Your word is worthless. I regret marrying you more every day.]

Blaire: [You always compare yourself to Dustin, but what do you have that he doesn't? He's kinder, more considerate, more caring. The only thing you've got over him is money.]

My chest felt like it was being branded with a hot iron. The pain was suffocating.

I set the phone down and clenched my fists, barely containing my rage.

"Mr. Perry, are you okay?" My assistant noticed something was wrong.

I took a shaky breath and forced the words out, "Draft a divorce agreement and send it to Blaire."

Half an hour later, Blaire's call came through.

I couldn't move, so I had my assistant put it on speaker.

The moment I picked up, her accusations hit me like a storm.

"Jim, what the hell is this? You're serious about divorcing me?"

I coughed weakly, waited until I could steady my voice, and said calmly, "When it comes to you, I never joke."

There was a beat of silence on her end—then a sharp, mocking laugh. "Stop pretending. You've been avoiding me for days just so you wouldn't have to fork over the money."

Before I could respond, she barreled on, "You even got your mother in on the act, feeding me that lie about you being in the ER, in critical condition, maybe even brain-dead."

"She wasn't lying, Blaire," I said.

She snorted. "If one of Dustin's friends hadn't told me you only broke your leg, I might've actually fallen for it."

Every explanation I had died in my throat. I closed my eyes and fought back the sting in my nose.

What's the point? You can't wake someone who's determined to stay asleep.

There was no use explaining anymore.

"That's not true, ma'am—Mr. Perry isn't lying to you, he really—" My assistant jumped in to defend me.

"Save it. You two can drop the act." Her voice turned cold and final. "Jim, I'm going to ask you one last time, and if you get it wrong, I won't give you another chance. Are you really not going to—"

"Blaire, let's get a divorce," I cut her off, my voice flat and calm. "Since that's what you want, I'll respect your decision."

A long, dead silence stretched across the line—a full thirty seconds.

Then her voice exploded with fury, "Jim Perry, let's get one thing straight—you were the one who chased me, who begged and groveled. I only married you because I felt sorry for you!"

Even though I'd braced myself, those words still cut deep.

Her tone turned glacial. "Fine. You want a divorce? Let's see who ends up regretting it."

The line went dead.

My assistant's eyes were red-rimmed, his face a mix of sympathy and outrage.

He said quietly, "Mr. Perry... how could she say things like that? You've been so good to her all these years. Everyone at the company saw it. She—"

I gave a helpless, bitter smile.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I was too good to her.

My assistant suddenly straightened. "Oh, Mr. Perry, I almost forgot. After your accident, the driver fled the scene. The police just called—they caught him.

"He's a man in his fifties. He claims he was distracted and didn't see you on the crosswalk."

A wave of unease washed over me.

No. That's not right.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to replay the moment of impact.

Just before the van hit me, I'd caught a glimpse of the driver's face. He had an utterly ordinary face. The look of a plain, honest man.

But his eyes—his eyes were anything but ordinary. They burned with cold, calculated malice.

This wasn't an accident. Every instinct screamed at me.

"Check his accounts. And his family's."

My assistant looked puzzled but pulled out his phone and got to work.

A few minutes later, he turned back to me, his expression deeply troubled.

"Mr. Perry... someone found that a week before the crash, an anonymous account transferred fifty thousand dollars into his daughter's account."

I nodded slowly, unsurprised.

"Pass that information on to the police."

What looked like a hit-and-run was actually a hired hit. Whoever was behind this had a ruthless streak.

I clenched my fists, a grim suspicion forming in the back of my mind.