Chapter 3

After two weeks of my mother's devoted care, I was finally able to sit up on my own.

The accident had left me with a moderate concussion, a shattered femur, and a ruptured kidney. Even the doctors said I was lucky to be alive—that I'd clawed my way back from death's door.

To keep my mother from worrying, I threw myself into physical therapy every single day.

Colleagues from the company came to visit in droves when they heard about my accident.

What I didn't expect was for Blaire to show up among them—after disappearing for days.

I froze.

Ever since I'd brought up divorce on that phone call, she'd vanished like a ghost. She wouldn't answer my calls, wouldn't reply to my messages, and wouldn't sign the papers.

I had no idea what she was playing at.

After the colleagues filed out, Blaire stayed behind.

She closed the door to my room, and her face crumpled into an expression of guilt and shame.

She apologized, "I'm... I'm so sorry. I had no idea your injuries were this bad."

In the past, I would've pulled her into my arms right then and there and said, "It's okay, babe. Look, I'm still standing, aren't I?"

But at this moment, I felt no urge to comfort or console her.

"Oh," I said flatly, meeting her eyes. "Well, now you know."

Blaire seemed taken aback by my response. She studied my face, then gave a sheepish laugh. "Honey, you're still mad at me? Don't be—it's not good for your recovery. I was out of line on that call. I shouldn't have fought with you, and I definitely shouldn't have threatened divorce."

Hearing the word "honey" slip from her lips made something deep inside me crack.

In all our years of marriage, she'd almost never called me that. She always used my name—Jim, sharp and formal.

Early on, I'd complained about it, telling her it felt too cold. She'd brushed me off, called me immature. And now, out of nowhere, she was using the endearment.

When she saw my expression soften slightly, Blaire let out a quiet breath of relief and stepped closer, reaching out to support me.

As she drew near, her familiar scent drifted into my nose.

I frowned, raised my hand, and gently pushed her back by the shoulder.

Blaire looked up at me, confused.

"Blaire, we're getting a divorce. We should keep our distance."

She stared at me in shock, the color draining from her face. "You... you're serious about this? Jim, please—don't joke like that."

Just then, my mother walked in. The moment she laid eyes on Blaire, her face turned sour, and her tone dripped with sarcasm. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up."

"Mom!" Blaire latched onto her like a lifeline. "Jim wants to divorce me. Please—talk some sense into him."

My mother yanked her hand away and turned her back coldly. "Hmph. Jim nearly died in that accident, and you—his wife—couldn't be bothered to visit or even make a single call. You've treated him worse than a stranger. What use does he have for a wife like you?"

"Mom, that's not fair," Blaire said, tears welling up in her eyes. "We'd just had a fight. I honestly thought he was lying to me—"

My mother turned away and said nothing more.

So Blaire pivoted back to me, clutching at my sleeve. "Jim, you have to believe me! If I'd known you were telling the truth, I would've been by your side this whole time—I swear!"

I looked into her eyes and let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

Blaire's face lit up. "Jim, I knew you'd understand."

Still smiling, I gently extracted my arm from her grip and shook my head. "Blaire, you don't have to sweet-talk me. If you'd really been worried, you wouldn't have waited half a month to come check on me."

The smile froze on her lips. She finally realized I wasn't bluffing about the divorce.

"Jim, you're the one who proposed to me. We haven't even made it to three years, and now, you're just throwing me away?"

Her voice crackled with fury. "You ungrateful bastard! When you worked late and came home at midnight, who stayed up to make you a hot meal? When your mom was hospitalized, and you were out of town on business, who took days off work to sit by her bedside? And—"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, weary.

All of that was ancient history.

Ever since Dustin had come back to town six months ago, Blaire had become a completely different person. The gentle, soft-spoken woman I'd married had turned irritable and short-tempered. Every time I tried to talk to her, she'd give me a look of pure impatience.

Then she started staying out at night.

When I called to ask where she was, she'd lie and say she was at a coworker's place.

But the dashcam in her car didn't lie.

She'd been going in and out of Dustin's house like she was the lady of the manor.

Eventually, I couldn't hold it in anymore and confronted her.

She exploded. "Jim, Dustin and I are completely innocent. Nothing happened. Believe it or not, I don't care! The only people who see dirt everywhere are the ones covered in it themselves!

"I married you—I didn't sell myself to you. You have no right to dictate my freedom!"

...

I didn't miss the look of grievance in Blaire's eyes.

I sighed inwardly. "I'll give you more than your fair share in the asset division."

Blaire shot me one last venomous glare, then spun around and stormed out of the room.

She was so worked up—what if something happened to her?

I grabbed my crutches and hobbled out into the hallway.

I made my way toward the stairwell, and her voice drifted up to me—familiar, unmistakable.

I stopped in my tracks.

Through the railing, I could see her silhouette on the landing below, her back turned to me.

"He's dead set on divorcing me. What am I supposed to do?

"What? Five million? Are you sure I can squeeze that much out of him?

"Don't talk crazy, Dustin. I will not let you die. I swear."

I stood frozen at the corner, watching the sunlight cast Blaire's shadow across the cold floor. A chill crawled up from my feet and settled deep in my bones.

After a long moment, I let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

All this time, I thought she didn't want the divorce because she still had some feelings for me. But now I see—that was just wishful thinking.

Just then, the elevator doors slid open, and my assistant rushed out, frantic.

"Mr. Perry, I've got the interrogation results! It was Dustin Graeme! He planned the hit weeks ago!"

Before I could respond, a sharp voice cut through from below, "What the hell are you talking about?!"

My assistant and I both turned.

Blaire stood a few steps away on the stairs, her face ghost-white, her expression frozen in shock.