Chapter 2

The wind blew in from the alley entrance, carrying a rotten smell.

My clothes were torn to shreds, my hair plastered messily against my bleeding forehead.

The drunk was scared off by a few young people passing by.

And my husband, Ethan Cole, had stood there the entire time.

He didn't move, didn't shout, didn't even make any attempt to call for help.

He just stood there.

I steadied myself against the cold wall and shuffled toward him step by step.

"Ethan."

When I spoke, I realized my voice was completely hoarse.

"Why didn't you call 911?"

He hung his head, his fingers twitching slightly—one of the few voluntary movements since his illness.

"You couldn't even yell? Just one shout for help would have been enough!"

My questioning turned into hysterical screaming, piercing the empty night.

"You just watched him drag me in there! You just watched! Did you want me to die?"

Tears finally broke through the dam, mixing with blood as they flowed down.

He finally raised his head and struggled to open his mouth, squeezing a few words from his throat.

"I'm... sor...ry..."

Those words, he said clearly enough.

All the strength drained from my body instantly, and I collapsed at his feet.

Sorry?

For his twenty-thousand-dollar physical therapy sessions, I scrubbed dishes in restaurant kitchens until midnight, knelt to mop floors in office buildings, hauled bricks at construction sites, and worked as an overnight caregiver.

I slept only three hours a day. My feet were so swollen that even the largest slippers wouldn't fit.

I just wanted to take him outside for some fresh air, so he wouldn't be cooped up at home all the time.

And what did I get?

I got an "I'm sorry."

The hole in my heart grew bigger and bigger, and cold wind howled through it.

I didn't want to look at him anymore. I struggled to my feet and limped home.

He followed behind, his steps slow and heavy—the last bit of dignity I had carefully maintained for him.

Back home, I locked myself in the bathroom. Hot water washed over my body but couldn't wash away the deep, bone-chilling disgust and coldness.

The person in the mirror was haggard and disheveled, with none of the glow from our wedding day.

I opened the medicine cabinet and tended to my wounds, every motion mechanical and numb.

Ethan knocked on the door, gently and patiently.

"Emma... open the door..."

I ignored him.

After a while, the knocking stopped.

When I finished treating my wounds and came out, the living room was quiet.

Ethan sat in his wheelchair, his back to me, his shoulders trembling slightly.

Was he crying?

I walked over, but saw the glowing phone screen in his hand.

On the screen was a chat with someone saved as "Lily."

The last message was one he had just sent.

"I miss you so much."

His fingers tapped rapidly on the screen—with a dexterity I had never seen before.

"She's so annoying. I can barely keep up this act anymore."