Scarred by His Betrayal

Three days after waking up from surgery, I finally gathered enough strength to confront Edwin. The pain in my leg had only intensified, a constant burning sensation that medication barely touched. Something wasn't right, and the evasive glances between Edwin and Lyra whenever I asked about my recovery only deepened my suspicions.

"I need to talk to you," I said when Edwin came to check on me during his rounds. "Alone."

He glanced at his watch—that expensive Swiss timepiece I'd given him for our fourth anniversary—and sighed. "I have ten minutes before my next surgery."

Once the door closed behind the nurse, I pulled back my blanket to reveal the bandages. "This isn't healing properly, Edwin. Something's wrong."

"Healing takes time, Alicia. You were seriously injured."

"I'm not talking about the accident injuries. I'm talking about what happened during surgery." I held his gaze, refusing to look away. "The pain isn't normal. The swelling isn't decreasing. And every time I ask about it, you and Lyra exchange looks like you're hiding something."

Edwin's professional mask slipped into place—the one he used with difficult patients. "You're being paranoid. Lyra and I performed emergency surgery that saved your leg, possibly your life. A little gratitude wouldn't be out of place."

The words hit me like a slap. "Gratitude? I'm supposed to be grateful when I can tell something went wrong?"

"Nothing went wrong!" His voice rose sharply. "Complications happen, Alicia. Not every procedure is perfect, especially emergency surgeries."

"And what about Lyra's comment about the scarring? About how some men might find it difficult to look at?" I watched his face carefully. "You didn't defend me, Edwin. You didn't say a word."

His jaw tightened. "Lyra was being realistic about your expectations. She was trying to prepare you."

"No, she was testing you. And you failed."

Edwin checked his watch again, his patience visibly thinning. "I don't have time for this, Alicia. Lyra did her job. If there were complications, they were unavoidable. End of discussion."

He walked out, leaving me with nothing but the bitter taste of betrayal.

---

Two weeks later, I was finally discharged. Edwin insisted I stay at our apartment rather than my own place, claiming it would be easier for him to monitor my recovery. But as the days passed, his attention seemed increasingly divided between me and the hospital—specifically, between me and Lyra.

The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday evening. I'd been struggling with physical therapy all day, fighting through pain that shouldn't have been so severe according to my research. Edwin had promised to come home early, but by eight o'clock, there was still no sign of him.

When I heard keys in the door, relief washed over me—until I heard voices. Edwin's deep tone was accompanied by a lighter, feminine one that made my stomach clench.

"Just for tonight, Lyra. The plumbing in your building won't be fixed until tomorrow." Edwin's voice carried down the hallway as they entered.

"You're so kind, Dr. Wheeler. I really appreciate this."

I gripped my crutches and made my way to the living room, my leg protesting with every step. The sight that greeted me froze the blood in my veins.

Lyra stood in our entryway, rain glistening in her blonde hair, wearing a sympathetic smile that didn't reach her eyes. Edwin was taking her coat, his movements casual, familiar.

"What is she doing here?" My voice sounded strange even to my own ears.

Edwin barely glanced at me. "Lyra's apartment has a plumbing issue. She needs a place to stay tonight."

"And she couldn't go to a hotel? Or literally anywhere else?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Alicia. We were discussing Mrs. Peterson's case anyway. This is practical."

I bit back my response, knowing from experience that Edwin would dismiss any objection as emotional overreaction. Instead, I retreated to our bedroom, seething.

Hours later, I dragged myself to the bathroom, only to find the door locked. "Hello?"

"Just a minute!" Lyra's voice called out cheerfully.

When the door opened, steam billowed out along with the scent of my expensive French bath oil. Lyra stood there wrapped in my silk robe, her hair wrapped in my towel.

"Oh, sorry!" She didn't look sorry at all. "Edwin said I could use your things. Hope you don't mind."

I pushed past her into the bathroom, bile rising in my throat. On the counter sat my skincare products, lids off, clearly used. And hanging on the hook behind the door were my silk pajamas—the ones Edwin had given me for Valentine's Day.

When I confronted Edwin in our bedroom, his dismissal was immediate.

"She needed something to sleep in, Alicia. It's just clothes."

"Those are my things. My personal things."

"You're overreacting. This jealousy isn't attractive."

"Jealousy?" I laughed bitterly. "This isn't jealousy, Edwin. This is me watching you cross every boundary with a woman who deliberately botched my surgery."

His face darkened. "That's a serious accusation. Lyra is a professional."

"A professional who's wearing my pajamas and using my bath oil? Who made comments about my scars being repulsive to you? Who you keep defending instead of supporting me?"

"I think the pain medication is affecting your judgment," he said coldly. "Get some rest. We'll talk when you're thinking clearly."

That night, as Edwin slept soundly beside me and Lyra occupied our guest room, I made my decision. The next day, I called Dr. Sarah Mitchell—an old medical school friend of Edwin's who had always been kind to me—and scheduled a private consultation.