When My Husband Got HIV, I Smiled

I had just finished a round of tests at the hospital and was waiting for the results.

Over the phone, his voice was hoarse with the aftermath of indulgence.

“Ellen, someone snapped photos of me with Janet Lane. Come to the company tomorrow and hold a press briefing to help clear things up for her.”

I was silent for two seconds.

“Clear up what?”

“Say it was a misunderstanding. She’s just a student I sponsor. There’s nothing between us,” he paused. “She’s young. She can’t handle the scrutiny.”

“Alright.”

I lowered my head as I agreed, the needle mark on my arm just being covered with a bandage.

He clearly let out a breath of relief.

“You really are sensible. Should I come back tonight and keep you company? It’s been a while since we…”

I cut him off. “I’m on my period.”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“Then forget it. Get some rest and don’t overthink it.”

After hanging up, I couldn’t help but laugh softly.

I just found him filthy, yet he thought I was saving myself for him.

The interview the next day was arranged in a conference room at the group’s headquarters.

The room was full of reporters, cameras popping nonstop, all lenses locked onto us, the so-called couple putting on a show.

I looped my arm through his, my makeup immaculate, my expression gentle.

When the scandalous rumors were brought up, he instinctively looked at me.

“It really was a misunderstanding,” I smiled.

“Miss Lane hasn’t been in great health. My husband merely looked after her a few times. I hope everyone won’t read too much into it.”

A reporter pressed on. “Mrs. Lowe, do you believe him?”

I turned my head toward him, my gaze warm and trusting.

“Of course I believe him.”

At that moment, his hand at my waist tightened noticeably.

Before the interview ended, his phone lit up.

His expression changed dramatically.

He stood up at once, microphone in hand. “Sorry, there’s an emergency.”

With that, he walked straight out.

Someone in the audience called after him, “Mr. Lowe, are you rushing off because Miss Lane has been hospitalized?”

His steps paused for a brief moment.

I remained seated alone under the flashing lights, finishing the act on his behalf.

After the crowd dispersed, my assistant asked me quietly, “Ma’am, are you alright?”

I stood up with a smile and smoothed the creases in my clothes.

“I’m fine.”

And I truly was.

Because I knew he was personally handing everything he had over to me.

That night, he sent me a message.

[She’s burning up badly. I’m at the hospital. Go to sleep first.]

I replied with a single word.

[Okay.]

After a moment’s thought, I added another line.

[I have some family matters to take care of and need to be away for a while. I’ll be back in a month.]

[Do you want me to go with you?]

[No need. I’ll handle it myself.]

[Alright.]

I put my phone down and continued reading the test report that had just been delivered.

It stated clearly:

The incubation period had ended. The condition was now infectious.

…

Early the next morning, I left the residence.

As I got into the car, I looked at the house I had lived in for five full years through the rearview mirror.

The lawn was trimmed to perfection, the entire garden bursting with flowers in full bloom.

He had specially commissioned them years ago from a private nursery on the West Coast, all because I had casually said they were “beautiful.”

Raised as the heir to a prominent East Coast family, he had always been accustomed to solving everything with money, yet he spent more than half a year with me, planting these flowers by hand, one patch at a time.

To achieve the best visual effect, he even revised the garden design more than a dozen times.

Because he said, “This is the place we’ll live in for the rest of our lives.”

A lifetime?

I looked away, leaned back against the seat, and slowly closed my eyes.

Now, the women he brought home came and went.

Only these roses were still tended by me alone.

I didn’t go back to my parents’ place.

Instead, I went straight to a private recovery center on the outskirts of the city.

The doctor was already waiting.

“Miss Scott, at the moment, there are no abnormalities. But to be cautious, over the next month, it’s best for you to avoid close contact with anyone,” he said, flipping through the test results.

“I know.” I nodded.

“As for Mr. Lowe…”

He paused and didn’t continue.

“Just keep observing,” I finished for him. “If there’s any change, inform me immediately.”

I moved into the quietest small building in the recovery center.

On the seventh night, Andy called me.

The background noise was chaotic.

“Where are you?”

His tone was a little impatient.