Chapter 2

My memories began rewinding frantically.

Six months ago, our hospital's emergency room did take in a delicate case.

I remembered Audrey coming home very late that night, looking exhausted and distracted.

I asked her what happened, and she just said she handled a complicated patient.

"What kind of patient?" I had asked casually.

"A young guy with trauma to his private area. Word is he's a host at an upscale nightclub," she replied dismissively. "Took forever to suture."

"Was it that bad?"

"Pretty bad. Looks like a client got... out of hand." She hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Anyway, it's patched up."

I didn't think twice about it back then. I even comforted her, saying, "That's ER life. You see everything down there."

She murmured an agreement and pulled me into a tight embrace. "Julian, I'm so glad you're a normal, safe person."

I laughed. "What does that mean? Did you want me landing in your ER too?"

She went quiet for a long moment before whispering, "I just want you to stay safe forever. Never get hurt."

That night, she clung to me like she was terrified of losing something.

I thought she was just feeling emotional after witnessing a patient's suffering. I held her and consoled her.

What a pathetic joke.

I collapsed onto the living room sofa, staring blankly at the framed photo on the wall.

It was taken during our trip to Aspen last winter. She was leaning against my shoulder, her smile bright and radiant.

I bought this condo two years ago because she said renting made her feel rootless and insecure.

We argued over the paint colors, fought over which appliances to buy, and without fail, I was always the one to back down first.

I thought that was what building a marriage meant.

Compromise, patience, and moving forward together.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

As dawn started bleeding through the blinds, I made up my mind.

I took screenshots of everything, saved them, and backed them up across three separate cloud drives.

Then, I dialed Audrey's number.

It rang seven or eight times. Just as I thought she was going to let it go to voicemail, the line clicked.

The background was dead quiet. Not a single sound from an active ER or doctors' lounge.

"Julian? Why are you calling this early? Is something wrong?"

"Audrey," I said, "where are you?"

"Where else? The on-call room. Just closed my eyes for a second after dealing with a critical patient all night."

She yawned softly. Her delivery was seamless.

"Why are you awake already? Did you finally come to your senses? Look, about that money—"

"I want to see you," I interrupted.

"What?"

"Turn on FaceTime. I want to see your face," I repeated.

The line went silent for a few beats.

"Julian, stop acting out. There are other doctors resting in here, it's unprofessional. Whatever this is, we'll talk this afternoon, okay?"

Her voice softened, laced with a faint trace of irritation she couldn't entirely hide.

I used to think that tone was patient tenderness. Now, I saw it for the cold calculation it was.

"Turn on the camera, Audrey. Right now."

"I told you, I'm working! Can you please just be normal for once and show a little empathy for my job?!"

Her voice spiked, ringing with defensive outrage.

I wasn't sure when it had started, but whenever I didn't fall in line with her wishes, the labels of being "abnormal" and "unsupportive" were slapped onto me immediately.

"Audrey," I heard my own voice trembling slightly, "I'm heading to the hospital right now. I'll be there in thirty minutes. Be there."

"Julian! What the hell is wrong with you?! It's five-thirty in the morning—"

I hung up.