My tenth year with neurasthenia, he choose mistress

"Miss Dawson, the Swiss Rehabilitation Center has officially approved your admission."

The doctor's voice crackled through the phone speaker.

I stared at the white wall of the clinic. It took my brain four full seconds to process the words. My neuro-delay syndrome always made me a step behind the rest of the world.

"The success rate is seventy percent," the doctor continued. "But we can only hold your spot for seven days. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I managed to say.

"We need the deposit wired by Friday. Otherwise, the spot goes to the next patient."

"I have the money," I told him. "I will send it today."

I hung up. My hands shook. Ten years. I had lived with numb fingers, flat emotions, and a mind wrapped in thick fog for an entire decade.

I dialed Johnson. My boyfriend. The man who promised he would marry me once I was finally cured.

The line rang four times before he picked up.

"What is it, Emily?" Johnson snapped.

"The Swiss center," I said, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat. "They have a spot for me."

A high-pitched whine bled through the receiver. "Husband, please do not leave me. The baby is kicking so hard, I am terrified!"

Jenny. His pregnant lover.

"I am busy," Johnson said to me.

"But the spot is only open for seven days. You promised you would go with me to Switzerland."

"Jenny just had a complete emotional breakdown," he interrupted. His tone carried zero warmth. "She is carrying my child. What if something happens to her? Your issues will just have to wait until after she gives birth."

"Seven days, Johnson. There is no time."

"Enough. I am not dealing with this right now."

The call ended.

I lowered my phone. The screen reflected my pale, expressionless face. People always assumed I felt no pain just because I never screamed. They were entirely wrong. The pain was there; it just took longer to reach the surface.

"Miss Dawson?"

A nurse stood in the doorway of the waiting room, holding a tablet. She frowned at the digital screen. "I was just processing your preliminary paperwork for the transfer. Your medical deposit account is empty."

"Empty?" I blinked.

"The funds were transferred out half an hour ago."

I opened my banking app. My thumb swiped across the glass.

Zero dollars.

I tapped the transaction history. A massive outgoing wire transfer glared back at me. The recipient was Jenny Miller.

Under the memo line, Johnson had typed: *For baby's school district house.*

My chest tightened. Every single dollar I had saved for a decade, gone. Through fevers where I crawled to the kitchen for medicine alone. Through critical illness notices I signed with my own shaking hand while Johnson was out buying jewelry for another woman. I endured it all for this fund.

I went back to the apartment we shared.

Johnson walked through the front door at ten o'clock that night. He tossed his keys onto the counter. They clattered against the marble.

I sat on the sofa, holding a printed copy of the bank statement.

"Where is the money, Johnson?" I asked.

He paused, loosening his tie. "You checked the account."

"You gave my treatment fund to Jenny."

"She needs a stable environment for the baby," he said, walking into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. "Real estate in that district is expensive. We needed the cash immediately."

"That was my life," I said. My voice remained flat, a cruel symptom of my disease, but inside, a violent storm raged. "You stole my chance to get better."

"It is just money," Johnson shot back.

"It was ten years of savings. I worked through the pain. I went to every doctor's appointment alone. When I had a fever so high my fingers shook, you were at Jenny's apartment holding her hand because she was afraid of a routine ultrasound. I crawled to the kitchen to get my own medicine."

"Are we really doing this right now?" he groaned.

"I signed my own critical illness notice last year, Johnson. You were supposed to be my emergency contact, but your phone was turned off."

"I was busy!"

"You were with her."

He leaned against the counter and took a sip of water. He did not look guilty. He looked profoundly annoyed.

"You have been sick for ten years, Emily. Does treating it even make a difference at this point?"

I gripped the paper in my hands. The edges crumpled under the pressure.

"You promised me," I whispered. "You said we would go to Switzerland together."

"Jenny is different," Johnson stated, setting the glass down hard. "She is pregnant. That is a real, living child. You just have a slow brain."

I stood up. My knees felt weak, but I locked them in place. "Give the money back. I have seven days to secure my spot."

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Stop being so dramatic. Look, just wait three more years."

"Three years?"

"Yes. Wait until the kid is born. Once Jenny's emotions are completely stable, I will scrape together the money and take you to Switzerland myself. Deal?"

He threw the proposal at me like scraps to a stray dog.

A cold numbness washed over my skin. Ten years of loyalty. Ten years of excusing his late nights, his blatant affairs, his complete disregard for my well-being. I had clung to his promise of marriage like a lifeline, convincing myself that he still cared.

It was all a massive joke.

"No," I said.

Johnson frowned. "What did you just say?"

"I said no." I lifted the Swiss admission notice from the coffee table. I grabbed the top edge and tore the heavy paper straight down the middle.

The sound ripped through the quiet room.

"Are you crazy?" Johnson yelled, stepping toward me. "Now you are throwing a tantrum over this?"

Before I could answer, a sharp buzz echoed through the apartment.

The doorbell.

Johnson stopped. He shot me a dirty look, then marched to the door and yanked it open. "Who the hell is it at this hour?"

Four men in sharp, tailored black suits stood in the hallway. They completely blocked the exit.

Johnson stepped back. "Who are you?"

The man in the front ignored him. He stepped into the apartment, his polished shoes silent on the hardwood floor. His gaze swept the room and locked onto me.

He pulled a crisp manila envelope from his jacket and extended it forward.

"Miss Emily Dawson?" the man asked. His tone was perfectly respectful, cutting through the heavy tension in the room.

"I am Emily," I replied.

The man handed me the envelope. "Your husband is currently suspected of illegally transferring your medical funds. We have the documentation right here."

Johnson’s face went completely pale. "What? Husband? We aren't married!"

The man in the suit did not even blink at Johnson's outburst. He kept his eyes entirely on me.

"Furthermore, Miss Dawson," the man said, lowering his voice just enough to make the words hit harder. "Our boss would like to see you."