My Dead Hamster Exposed Him

I didn't say a word. But I got it.

Stuart had taken my bracelet, handed it off to her, and given me a knockoff like I wouldn't notice. And Zoey? She wore it on purpose. Just to rub it in.

I smiled and slipped my arm through Stuart's. "We'll head out first."

In the car, he leaned in close, whispering sweet little things in my ear like nothing was wrong.

I didn't bother answering.

When we pulled up to the building, I glanced at my phone. "Hospital's got an emergency. I need to head back. You go on up."

He didn't question it. I waited until he was inside—then drove straight to the hospital.

I knew my car had a tracker. Stuart was careful like that. If he even felt my suspicion, he'd watch every move I made.

If I actually parked around our house, nothing would happen.

So yeah—I was gambling.

I'd seen Zoey's face earlier. That look in her eyes? She wasn't the type to wait quietly. I was betting she'd try something tonight. She wouldn't be able to help herself.

A little after midnight, I texted my dad.

[Call Stuart. Just make conversation.]

Ten minutes later, I called Zoey.

"Dr. Loughlin? What's wrong?"

She sounded surprised.

From the other end, I caught background noise—a fan humming... and a man's voice.

I knew that voice.

Stuart.

That was all I needed.

Just like the netizens said—once doubt creeps in, everything after just confirms it.

I hung up and got someone digging. Fast.

First stop: bank statements. Then e-wallets.

I combed through months of transactions, line by line.

Nothing shady.

No big transfers. No weird accounts.

Credit cards? Same story. Just groceries, gas, normal stuff. No loans.

Which made zero sense.

He was cheating—but not moving assets?

Stuart lived for money. Back then, he'd argued forever about my money.

Sure, he was easy on the eyes, had admirers. But he picked me for the name, not the love.

Leaving everything untouched?

That wasn't his move.

I kept digging. Finally hit something.

My research paper—opened.

That file had everything: years of work, raw data, my signature surgical method.

If the surgery pulled through, it wouldn't just be my career's peak.

It'd flip the whole industry.

Stuart knew exactly how big that paper was.

Now the timestamp was different.

Someone had opened it—copied the whole thing.

I just stared at the screen. Blank.

I knew the play.

In two months, there'd be a major surgery—live, coast to coast and beyond.

Stuart planned to hand my method to Zoey.

Let her shine in front of every camera, every top-tier expert.

And once she did?

They'd shove me out for good.

Perfect.

Way nastier than just moving assets.

***

The next day at work, I spotted Stuart outside the conference room.

Different clothes under the white coat. Cute trick—proof he'd been home, like I was just spiraling.

I smiled, slid an arm around his waist, tipped my chin up for a kiss.

He leaned back. "People are around."

I stepped closer anyway—and caught a weird smell.

It smelled like faint ash—burnt incense.

I'd smelled it on Zoey before. She'd called it spiritual, said she always had incense going at her place.

And just like that, it clicked.

Not cigarettes. Not cooking.

The incense killed my hamster.

***

That afternoon, I did rounds with a few interns.

Zoey led the group.

I tossed out a couple case questions, casual. She handled them easily, then volunteered two backup treatment plans like she was auditioning.

Dr. Fletcher nodded along. "Not bad. Very promising."

Zoey kept going, diving into post-op care, breaking it down like she owned the floor.

Dr. Fletcher patted her shoulder. "Keep this up. There'll be a place for you."

Figures.

He'd never liked me—said I had a temper. I didn't flatter him, didn't coddle his ego. My work spoke louder than he ever could, and he hated that. He'd wanted someone else in my spot for years.

We stopped at the last ward.

Inside was Stuart's mother—Gianna.

At the head of the bed, the chart read: [elective surgery.]

Stuart had insisted it had to be me—said that was the only way he'd feel okay.

Elective?

I glanced at Zoey. She was practically buzzing.

Fine. I'd pick a great date for her.

I went back to my office.

A few minutes later, Zoey knocked. "Dr. Loughlin, do you have a moment?"

She stepped in, stopped in front of my desk, smiling. "Dr. Fletcher said I did great today. About becoming full-time—could that happen earlier?"

I looked at her. "Internships have fixed terms. You still need to pass evaluation."

She blinked. "But skill's what really matters, right?"

"Skill matters," I said. "So does knowing your place."

Her smile stretched. "Places are given. Or taken."

I leaned back, didn't respond.

She moved closer. "Opportunities go to whoever grabs them first."

The room went dead quiet.

She stared me down—no hesitation. I held her gaze.

A beat later, she pulled back, slipped on that fake-sweet smile, and turned to go.