His Poisoned Love, My Shattered Heart

Faith Frazier POV:

The antiseptic smell of the hospital stung my nostrils. A nurse, a blur of white, hovered over me. "You're finally awake," she mumbled, her voice tired. "Why would you take such a large dose of allergy medicine? You were in anaphylactic shock. Any later, and you would have died."

I managed a weak, bitter smile. "Thank you," I rasped, my throat raw.

My eyes swept past the nurse, landing on Dale. He stood a few feet away, his face unreadable. My smile faltered, replaced by a cold, hard mask. He was silent for a few moments, then his voice, laced with an unfamiliar irritation, broke the silence. "You should have told me you were allergic to that specific ingredient."

I met his gaze, my own eyes flat. "Jetta did this," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but firm. "She drugged me."

To my surprise, he nodded. "I know," he said. "But it was an accident. She grabbed the wrong bottle." He paused, then added, "I've already punished her."

My voice was hoarse, barely audible. "How?"

He frowned, then sighed. "I docked her half a day's intern salary."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I had expected his bias, but not this level of absurdity. My skin was still covered in inflamed, weeping blisters, a testament to Jetta's cruelty. "Is that a punishment, Dale?" I asked, my voice rising. "Or an endorsement? Look at me! Look at what she did!"

"You provoked her, Faith," he said, his voice cold and hard. "You attacked an innocent woman. Jetta is kind and gentle. She would never intentionally harm anyone." His eyes narrowed. "Now, apologize to her."

I refused. Absolutely.

The next few days were a blur of pain and loneliness. No visitors. No phone calls. Just the sterile white walls of my hospital room. Then, I saw him again, not in person, but in Jetta's social media feed. A picture of her, her manicured hand tucked into the arm of Dale's suit jacket. The caption read: "Dale took me on a trip to blow off some steam."

They were in a field of flowers, then walking hand-in-hand under a sky exploding with fireworks. A yacht party, wishes on shooting stars. They looked like a couple deeply in love, their romance extravagant and passionate.

As their trip was nearing its end, I stood at the departure gate, my suitcase by my side. The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Dale. "I'll be back tomorrow," it read. "We need to talk."

I stared at the message, a distant, detached part of my mind wondering if it would be an attempt at reconciliation or another argument. But it no longer mattered. I felt nothing.

I drafted an email, attaching irrefutable evidence of Jetta's manipulations, her true colors, and sent it to Dale's work address. Then, I removed my SIM card, snapped it in half, and dropped it into a nearby trashcan.

This was it. The end. I was gone.