The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lies.

My arm was encased in a sling, and the second-degree burn on my shoulder throbbed in a violent staccato, syncing perfectly with my heartbeat.

I carried a thermos of bone broth in my good hand.

It was an old recipe, something my mother used to make for the sick and the weary. I told myself that maybe-just maybe-if I played the part of the dutiful wife well enough, the reality would bend to match the performance.

I reached the door to the private suite.

It was cracked open.

I didn't walk in. I froze.

Blake was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Ariana was propped up against a mountain of pillows, looking less like a patient and more like a tragic porcelain doll.

She wasn't burned. She wasn't even singed. The only injury she sported was a microscopic scratch on her cheek and a relentless, gaping need for attention.

Blake held a spoon.

He blew on the soup, testing the temperature against his own lip with a tenderness that made my stomach turn, before offering it to her.

"Eat," he murmured. "You're in shock."

"I lost everything, Blake," she whimpered. "My art. My vision."

"We will rebuild it," he promised. "Better. Bigger."

"I was so scared," she whispered, leaning into his hand. "I thought I was going to die alone."

"I would never let that happen," he said.

His voice was thick with guilt.

I recognized that tone. It was the sound of a debt being paid.

Ten years ago, a hit meant for a Santos soldier went wrong. Ariana was a bystander. She got hurt. Blake, then just a medical student, had saved her life on the pavement.

He decided then and there to become a trauma surgeon. Not to save the city. To save her.

Every surgery he performed, every life he saved, was just him paying penance to the ghost of the girl bleeding on the sidewalk.

I pushed the door open with my hip, intruding on their private little tragedy.

Blake looked up.

His eyes narrowed when he saw me.

"You should be resting," he said, his voice instantly dropping the velvet softness he used for her.

"I brought you dinner," I said, lifting the thermos. "And broth for her."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"She can't keep anything down but clear soup. The cafeteria slop is fine."

He turned back to Ariana. "Open up."

I set the thermos on the side table with a heavy thud.

"The board meeting for the Family Charity is tomorrow," I said, forcing the conversation to business. "I need to review the donor list."

Blake sighed, putting the spoon down with a sharp clatter.

"Caroline, look at her. She's traumatized. She just lost her livelihood."

"And I almost lost my arm," I said flatly.

He glanced at my sling with clinical detachment.

"It's a hairline fracture and a second-degree burn. You'll heal. You're tough."

I hated that word.

Tough.

It was the word he used to justify hurting me. It was the shield he forced me to carry so he didn't have to worry about the weight of his own neglect.

"Ariana needs something to focus on," Blake continued. "Something to give her purpose while the gallery is rebuilt."

I felt a cold pit form in my stomach.

"What are you saying?"

"Give her your seat on the Charity Board," he said.

It wasn't a question.

It was an order from the Underboss.

"That seat manages a five-million-dollar budget," I argued, my voice rising. "It requires strategic planning. Ariana is a painter."

"I understand trauma," Ariana piped up, her voice trembling on cue. "I understand what it's like to be a victim. I can connect with people."

She looked at Blake with wide, watery eyes.

"I just want to help, Blake. Like you help people."

He melted.

I saw the steel in his spine turn to water.

"It's done," Blake said to me, his tone final. "Resign the seat tomorrow. Ariana takes over next week."

"She isn't qualified," I said, my voice tight.

"She is under my protection," he snapped. "That makes her qualified."

Ariana smiled.

It was a small, smug thing, hidden behind a tissue.

"Thank you, Blake," she whispered. "You always know what I need."

I looked at the thermos of broth. I had spent four hours simmering it, skimming the fat, making it perfect.

"I'll send the paperwork," I said.

I walked out.

I didn't go to my room.

I sat in the hallway on a cheap plastic chair and pulled out the ledger.

Minus five points.

Gave my seat to the whore.

Score: 45.