Her Pain, His Blindness

Her Pain, His Blindness

Gavin

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A sharp, stabbing pain woke me. 3:17 AM. Alone. I reached for my husband, Mark, but he wasn' t there. My desperate call for help was answered by Lily, his goddaughter, her voice laced with annoyance. "Mark is busy. Eleanor isn' t feeling well, so he's here with me." I tried to explain about the emergency, the searing pain in my abdomen. She dismissed it as drama and hung up. Abandoned, I crawled to the phone and dialed 911, whispering, "I think I'm dying." At the hospital, the doctor' s grim face confirmed my worst fear: a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. I was bleeding internally and needed emergency surgery. Alone, I signed the consent form, my hand trembling, tears blurring Sarah Miller into a solitary figure. When I reached Mark hours later, fresh out of surgery and groggy from anesthesia, his words were cold, clipped. "What is it now, Sarah?" Before I could explain, Lily's frantic voice in the background cut me off. "Mark, come quick! Mom\'s monitor is beeping again!" He hung up, choosing her over me, over our lost baby, over my near-death experience. The love I thought was unbreakable shattered into a million pieces. The next morning, lying in the hospital bed, a cold, hard clarity settled over me. I had to make him understand. I sent him my medical reports, hoping the undeniable proof would cut through his blindness. His reply, however, sealed my fate: "Sarah, this has gone too far. Using a fake medical report to guilt-trip me is a new low." He called me manipulative, a liar. He chose her over me, again. The fight drained out of me. I typed one word: "Okay." It was over. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I was done.

Introduction

A sharp, stabbing pain woke me.

3:17 AM. Alone.

I reached for my husband, Mark, but he wasn' t there.

My desperate call for help was answered by Lily, his goddaughter, her voice laced with annoyance.

"Mark is busy. Eleanor isn' t feeling well, so he's here with me."

I tried to explain about the emergency, the searing pain in my abdomen.

She dismissed it as drama and hung up.

Abandoned, I crawled to the phone and dialed 911, whispering, "I think I'm dying."

At the hospital, the doctor' s grim face confirmed my worst fear: a ruptured ectopic pregnancy.

I was bleeding internally and needed emergency surgery.

Alone, I signed the consent form, my hand trembling, tears blurring Sarah Miller into a solitary figure.

When I reached Mark hours later, fresh out of surgery and groggy from anesthesia, his words were cold, clipped.

"What is it now, Sarah?"

Before I could explain, Lily's frantic voice in the background cut me off.

"Mark, come quick! Mom\'s monitor is beeping again!"

He hung up, choosing her over me, over our lost baby, over my near-death experience.

The love I thought was unbreakable shattered into a million pieces.

The next morning, lying in the hospital bed, a cold, hard clarity settled over me.

I had to make him understand.

I sent him my medical reports, hoping the undeniable proof would cut through his blindness.

His reply, however, sealed my fate: "Sarah, this has gone too far. Using a fake medical report to guilt-trip me is a new low."

He called me manipulative, a liar. He chose her over me, again.

The fight drained out of me.

I typed one word: "Okay."

It was over.

I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I was done.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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