My Husband Slept With His Mistress Outside My Hospital Room

The days had no edges anymore.

Morning was a paper cup with two white pills. Evening was a paper cup with three blue ones. I sat by the window in the recreation room, my hands resting limp in my lap. I didn't speak. I didn't cry. My mind felt packed with damp cotton.

Mrs. Patterson noticed me on my very first morning.

She was seventy, with soft silver curls and hands that shook when she held a plastic spoon. The nurses said she used to teach fourth grade. While the other patients drifted past like shadows, Mrs. Patterson stopped beside my chair. She looked at my hollow eyes, then down at my bandaged wrists.

She didn't say, *What happened to you?* She didn't ask why I never moved.

Instead, she reached into the pocket of her knitted cardigan. Her trembling fingers pressed something warm and smooth into my cold palm.

A hard-boiled egg.

"You eat, sweetheart," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, dry as autumn leaves. "You keep your strength."

I looked down at the pale shell. My fingers wouldn't close around it at first. But Mrs. Patterson stood there, patient and still, until I brought it to my mouth. It tasted of salt and nothing else. But every single morning, right after the eight o'clock pill line, she found me.

She never asked for a thank you. She just slipped an egg into my fingers and stroked my hair once.

In that frozen place, it was the only warm thing left in the world.

***

Three weeks in, the click of high heels cut through the quiet hallway.

No one wore heels here. The nurses wore soft rubber soles that squeaked on the linoleum. I turned my head slowly toward the reinforced glass of my door.

Mathias stood there.

He wore a tailored charcoal coat over a black cashmere sweater. Beside him was a girl with honey-blonde hair, draped in a cream designer coat and clutching a crocodile-skin bag. Violeta Ruiz. I recognized her from the gossip blogs Mathias kept on his tablet.

Mathias had brought his newest lover to parade outside my cage.

He held her hand lightly, pointing through the window at me like I was an exhibit in a museum. He smiled. He looked relaxed, powerful, and clean.

He thought Violeta would feel victorious. But as the girl looked through the glass, her face twisted.

She didn't look happy. She stared at me—thin, pale, sunken into a grey hospital gown. And yet, I wore the title. I was the wife. The law still tied Mathias to me, not her.

Violeta’s painted lips tightened into an ugly snarl.

"I don't care that she’s sick!" Violeta’s voice shrieked through the heavy door, sharp and thin. "She's still here, Mathias! You still pay for her! You still carry her name!"

"Keep your voice down, Violeta," Mathias murmured, his smooth tone filtering through the crack of the jamb.

"No!" She stomped her pointed heel against the tile, crossing her arms. "You brought me here to show off? Prove she doesn't matter. Prove it right now! Show me she's just garbage to you, or I'm taking the car and leaving!"

Mathias didn't argue. He never argued when a transaction was on the line.

He glanced back at the window. His dark eyes caught mine, cold as winter water.

He let go of Violeta’s hand, stepped forward, and pushed my door open.

***

The latch clicked shut behind him.

Mathias didn't speak. He didn't greet me. His handsome face was completely blank. He walked to the edge of my narrow bed and reached for his belt buckle.

Panic pierced the fog in my brain. My heart slammed against my ribs. "Mathias... no. Don't."

He didn't hesitate. He grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head with one broad hand. The paper gown tore like dry leaves under his grip. His weight came down on my chest, crushing the air straight out of my lungs.

"Stop," I gasped, thrashing beneath him. "Please, Mathias, stop!"

He didn't look at my face. He stared past my ear, his breath hot and fast against my neck. It wasn't passion. It was a chore. A chore to quiet a spoiled girl waiting in the hall.

Pain tore through my lower abdomen—a sharp, white-hot rip that made my vision black out.

When he finally pulled away, adjusting his slacks, I was curled on my side.

A terrible wet heat gushed between my thighs.

Red soaked through the thin white sheets, pooling onto the plastic mattress underneath. A scream caught in my throat, but only a wet rattle came out.

The emergency monitors on the wall began to shriek.

Doctors and nurses flooded the room. Someone shoved Mathias back toward the door. Rubber gloves snapped. Hands pressed down hard on my stomach, trying to stem the flood, but the pain kept drilling deeper, tearing me apart from the inside.

"She’s hemorrhaging!" a doctor yelled. "Get three units of O-neg! Move!"

Through the blur of bright ceiling lights, I saw Mathias standing by the door frame. He smoothed the lapels of his coat. His expression remained completely flat.

Ten minutes later, the bleeding slowed.

The doctor stripped off his bloody gloves, his face pale and grim. He looked down at me, his voice flat with clinical finality.

"You were nearly six weeks pregnant, Mrs. Carr," the doctor said quietly. "The trauma caused a complete uterine rupture. We stopped the bleed, but the scarring is severe. You will never be able to carry a child again."

The words hit my chest like heavy stones. *A baby.* A baby I hadn't even known was there. Gone.

Mathias stood by the wall.

He didn't gasp. He didn't flinch. A brief, controlled silence hung over him as he checked his platinum wristwatch.

Then he looked at me one last time. There was no grief in his eyes. There was only a mild annoyance, the look of an executive who had just seen a slight drop in quarterly profits.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Through the glass, I watched him head down the corridor. He pulled his phone from his pocket, smiling softly as he spoke into the receiver.

"I'm coming down, baby," he murmured, his voice drifting back through the open door. "Get your coat ready. We're going to Nordstrom."