Clara blinked. “What?”
“The man in the next bed. Mark Grant. Is he okay?”
Something changed in her face.
It happened so quickly I almost missed it. Surprise first. Then disbelief. Then something dangerously close to panic.
“You remember him?”
“Of course I remember him.” My voice was faint, but irritation gave it strength. “He was kind to me when my husband decided to become a villain at three in the morning.”
Clara pressed her lips together.
“Jessica…”
“Where is he?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation made my heart stumble.
“Is he dead?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No. He’s alive.”
“Then where is he?”
Before Clara could answer, the door opened.
A doctor stepped in, tall and silver-haired, wearing the expression of a man who had delivered both good news and bad news so often that his face had learned how to reveal neither too early.
“Mrs. Hale,” he said, then paused. “Jessica.”
Mrs. Hale.
I hated the name on his tongue.
“I’m Dr. Whitmore. Your surgery was successful. We removed the mass entirely. There were complications with bleeding, but we controlled them. You’ll need further treatment, and we’ll run more tests, but this morning you won.”
I turned my face away before he could see me cry.
I had won.
And I had lost everything.
Maybe that was what survival was sometimes. Not a celebration. Just being forced to stay and sort through the wreckage.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
