3
Once I was settled in a private room, Alex shut the door. While fussing with my blanket, he spoke. “Clara, Isabelle has worked hard to build her reputation. She volunteered for this mission. About the… misdiagnos- is… if anyone asks, just say it was another doctor.”
He gave me a name. He’d already found a scapegoat.
He would move heaven and earth for his precious Isabelle. I could beg him for anything, and he’d tell me it was impossible. But all she had to do was cry, and he would make the impossible happen.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I looked at the name he had written down for me, then at his phone, which he ‘d left on the nightstand. His chat history was filled with her name. This whole cover–up was for her.
My decade of devotion felt like a cosmic joke.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do as you say.”
A smug, confident look crossed his face. He knew he had me wrapped around his finger. He gave the blanke a cursory tug, not even bothering to cover me properly, and left.
For the next few days, he walked right past my room with Isabelle on his arm, taking her to have her dressing changed, never once looking in on me. I signed all my own medical forms. Meanwhile, when Isabelle’s min-
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16.17
Chapter 1
16 17
or wound showed the slightest sign of infection, he nearly came to blows with her doctor, his voice chokec
with concern.
The irony was laughable.
After a few days of rest, the rescue efforts in the disaster zone were winding down. As things returned to normal, the media began their interviews. Isabelle, the brilliant heiress from a medical dynasty, was thei
star.
A photo of Alex carrying her as he ran from the disaster zone went viral. Everyone was speculating abou their relationship.
The headlines all read: A True Couple, Forged in Crisis.
Meanwhile, I, his wife of ten years, had no one to even help me to the bathroom.
Alex even posted a photo on his social media of him feeding Isabelle and bringing her flowers, without eve bothering to block me.
I liked the post. Then, using the photo he’d sent me, I found the scapegoat.
The young doctor was a new intern. Isabelle had only told him he’d misdiagnosed a patient; she’d left out th part about burying me alive. When I laid out the full story, he understood the gravity of the situation.
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice trembling, “they have an interview scheduled for tomorrow. They told me to g and publicly confess that I made the mistake, and to say that Isabelle discovered my error in time and save a life…”
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The sheer audacity of their plan was breathtaking.
“Should I still go?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes. You absolutely have to go.”
The next day, just as the interview was about to start, the intern sent me a text.
I immediately called the police.
“Hello, I’d like to report a crime,” I said, my voice steady. “Rescue Captain Alex Wilson and Dr. Isabelle Ros of Central Hospital are suspected of attempted murder.”
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