I inhaled sharply, and the pain punished me for it. Clara lifted a straw to my lips. “Small sip.” The water tasted like mercy. I swallowed and tried again. “Did they get it?” She glanced toward the door. “The surgeon will explain everything, but yes. The procedure went better than expected.” I closed my eyes. Better than expected. Not perfect. Not miraculous. But enough. Enough to keep breathing. Enough to remember. Evan. His text came back like a blade sliding between my ribs. We’re getting a divorce, Jessica. I don’t need the burden of a sick wife. The pain in my body suddenly seemed honest. The pain from Evan was dirty. Cowardly. It had no right to exist inside a hospital room where people fought so hard to stay alive. Then another memory surfaced. Mark. The chair by my bed. His calm voice. The trash in your life has finally taken itself out. My insane joke. If I survive this, maybe we should just get married and call it a day. His answer. Okay. My eyes opened. “Mark,” I whispered.

“I made mistakes.”

“Yes.”

“I handled things badly.”

I almost laughed.

“You texted your wife for a divorce hours before surgery because you didn’t need a sick wife.”

His face flushed.

“I was scared.”

“So was I.”

“I know.”

“No,” I said. “You don’t. You were inconvenienced. I was scared.”

His mouth tightened.

“Is Grant here?”

There it was.

Not remorse.

Jealousy.

“No.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

I stared at him.

“You really came here to ask that?”

“You move into his charity hotel, he pays for your lawyer—”

“He did not pay for my lawyer.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I no longer care what you believe.”

Evan stepped closer.

“I think you’re being manipulated.”

That did make me laugh.

It came out sharp and clean.

“You had your mistress drinking coffee from my mug in my kitchen, and you think I’m being manipulated by the man who helped keep my insurance active?”

His expression flickered.

“You went to the house.”

“Yes.”

“You had no right to bring strangers into our home.”

“Our home,” I said. “Careful, Evan. You keep forgetting that part.”

He lowered his voice.

“Jessica, we can settle this between us.”

“No, we can’t.”

“I don’t want this getting ugly.”

“You made it ugly at 3:00 AM.”

He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw the moment he understood that the woman he had expected to find—frightened, pleading, grateful for any crumb of affection—was gone.

His anger surfaced.

“You think he’ll want you when you’re not some tragic little project?”

The words landed.

They hurt.

But they did not destroy.

Before I could answer, a voice behind him said, “Yes.”

Mark stood in the doorway.

Not in a suit this time. In a dark sweater and coat, snow melting on his shoulders.