Husband's Betrayal

The china plate trembled in my hands as I placed it before Wyatt, the steam from the roasted chicken rising between us like a fragile barrier. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge my presence at all. Instead, his attention remained fixed on Opal, who sat in my chair at our dining table, wearing a dress I recognized from my own closet.

"This looks delicious, doesn't it, darling?" Opal cooed, reaching across to touch Wyatt's hand in a gesture so intimate it made my stomach clench.

"It does," he agreed, finally glancing at me with cold detachment. "You can serve yourself now, Serenity. In the kitchen."

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat, fighting the wave of dizziness that had become my constant companion. The cancer was progressing—I could feel it in my bones, in the constant fatigue that dragged at my limbs, in the pain that radiated from my chest in pulsing waves. But nobody believed me. Not Wyatt, who called it another manipulation, and certainly not Opal, who watched my deterioration with barely concealed satisfaction.

In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter and pressed my palm against my breast where the lump had grown larger, harder. How many nights had I now spent in that basement, separated from my medication, from proper care? How much time did I have left?

Through the doorway, I could see them eating, laughing, playing the part of lovers so convincingly that sometimes I wondered if I was the one who had lost touch with reality. Opal fed Wyatt a bite from her fork, and he kissed her fingers afterward, a casual intimacy that twisted the knife deeper into my heart.

"Remember when we went to that little bistro in Paris?" Opal was saying, her voice carrying clearly to where I stood. "And you said you'd never felt so alive before?"

Wyatt nodded, smiling at a memory that couldn't possibly exist. We had gone to Paris for our honeymoon. Opal had never been there. But somehow, she had inserted herself into our history, rewriting it so thoroughly that even Wyatt believed the new version.

I couldn't take it anymore. The charade, the cruelty, the constant pain—it was too much. While they were distracted with each other, I slipped out the kitchen door into the cool night air. The nearest hospital was three miles away. In my weakened state, it would take hours to walk there, but I had to try. Someone had to believe me.

I had barely made it past the garden when I heard the door slam open behind me.

"Where do you think you're going?" Wyatt's voice cut through the darkness, and I froze, terror washing over me in an icy wave.

"I need a doctor," I whispered, turning to face him. "Wyatt, please. I'm sick. I'm really sick."

His laugh was hollow, echoing in the night air. "Another lie? Another manipulation?" He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. "I'm getting tired of your games, Serenity."

He dragged me across the lawn toward the swimming pool, its surface glittering under the moonlight. Understanding dawned with horrifying clarity.

"No," I gasped, struggling against his grip. "Wyatt, don't—"

The water hit me like a shock, stealing my breath as he pushed me under. His hands held me down, the weight immovable as I thrashed beneath the surface. Just as my lungs began to burn, he pulled me up, allowing me one desperate gasp before shoving me back down.

"Tell me the truth," he demanded when he let me surface again, water streaming from my hair, my clothes, my eyes. "Tell me about the affair. About how long you've been lying to me."

"There was no affair," I choked out between ragged breaths. "I swear to you, Wyatt. I never—"

Under again. The chlorine burned my eyes, my nose, my throat. The world reduced to nothing but pressure and pain and the desperate need for air. When he pulled me up this time, I couldn't even speak, could only cough and gasp and sob.

From the edge of the pool, I saw Opal watching, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression one of perfect, calculated concern. In her hand was a small stack of papers.

"I found these in her suitcase," she called to Wyatt. "Hotel receipts. Love letters. There's even a photo."

More lies. More fabrications. But as Wyatt's face darkened with renewed fury, I knew it didn't matter. The truth had drowned long before he ever pushed me into this pool.