Chapter 3

I found Andrew near the back exit of the sanitarium.

Heavy, hushed snow draped the overgrown lawn, drifting downward like stifled sobs.

He stood barefoot in the freezing slush, clutching a tattered ragdoll while humming a nursery rhyme out of tune. His face was flushed crimson, his exposed toes already turning a bruised shade of purple.

The first thing I noticed was the fresh scratches on the back of his hand and the dark bruise near his temple.

"Andrew," I called out, rushing over. I took off my coat and wrapped it around him, then knelt to rub warmth back into his frozen hands and feet.

He offered an innocent smile, his mind lost in a fog. "Lottie, are Mom and Dad here to take us home?"

I froze, a sudden, burning ache behind my eyes.

I knew what he meant.

He was still living in the wreckage of our past.

When we were kids, every winter meant crowding around a steaming pot of soup on the stove. Mom would peel shrimp for Andrew, while Dad teased me for being a picky eater as he piled my plate high with food.

We constantly bickered, but we were genuinely happy.

That warmth was tangible, wrapped in the rich, savory aroma of simmering broth, a memory etched permanently into my mind.

Years later, on her deathbed, Mom held our hands with what little strength she had left. "You two only have each other now," she whispered. "When I'm gone, promise me you'll look after Andrew."

I had nodded solemnly, believing I could honor that promise.

Yet here he was, barefoot in a freezing blizzard, his skin raw from the cold, and I hadn't even managed to prepare him proper shoes for the winter.

I'd been holding back my tears, but in that moment, all my sadness was replaced by a wave of pure hatred.

A hatred directed entirely at one person: Richard Foster.

Three years ago, Andrew threw himself over to save Richard's life, and this brain injury was the price he paid.

As for me? To maintain the illusion of a perfect marriage, to keep the hollow title of Mrs. Foster, I had swallowed every insult and forced a smile through every betrayal.

I'd clung to the hope that he'd come back to me. Instead, he'd shamelessly moved his mistress in straight next door to my bedroom, expecting me to overlook this blatant slight.

*****

Later that afternoon, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. Richard's assistant stepped out and offered me a check. "Mr. Foster says if you apologize to Ms. Lane, this will cover your brother's medical expenses."

I took the check, my fingertips numb from the cold.

I glanced at it, then ripped the paper to shreds.

The white scraps scattered into the swirling snow, fluttering away like every worthless promise Richard had made during our marriage.

"Tell Richard I'll take care of my brother myself," I said.

That evening, I pawned every piece of jewelry I owned and rushed Andrew to the best private hospital in Belleridge.

Mid-admission, the receptionist suddenly told me, "Mrs. Foster, I'm so sorry. Mr. Foster has flagged your accounts. All your payment methods are frozen."

Without another word, I turned on my heel and marched toward the main building.

I found them in the VIP suite on the top floor.

Vivian reclined in the bed, her wrist wrapped in pristine white gauze, her face pale. Richard stood by her bedside, his expression icy as he looked at me. "Apologize to her, now," he commanded.

I looked at them and couldn't help but think how absurd the whole thing was.

Vivian pretended to doze, though I caught the smug twitch at the corner of her mouth.

"Why should I?" I shot back.

She opened her eyes, dropping her innocent act to reveal pure disgust. "You humiliated me in front of my friends, Charlotte. Now you're going to make amends under the same spotlight."

She held up her phone, displaying an active livestream. The viewer count was low, but the names in the chat were painfully familiar: the prominent wives, wealthy heiresses, and key players of the Belleridge social scene.

"Make it convincing," Vivian said. "Admit you were jealous of me, and that's why you mocked me on Twitter. Then, slap yourself. Hard. Right across the face, over and over, until I tell you to stop."

I looked at Richard. He frowned, remaining silent.

I let out a hollow laugh, offering the picture of total defeat.

"I was jealous. I never should have said those things." I forced out the words. Then, raising my hand, I struck my own cheek.

The sound of the impact cracked through the quiet room like a gunshot.

The live feed exploded.: [Mrs. Foster sure knows how to put on an act.]

[Stop; that sounds like it hurts.]

[Take the L, honey.]

I struck myself a second time. My skin stung, turning a violent red.

By the third blow, the sharp edge of my own ring sliced into my cheek. Warm blood trickled down, leaving a metallic taste on my lips.

Vivian shrank back in disgust. "Ugh, Rick, make her stop. Blood makes me nauseous."

Richard paused, annoyance crossing his face. His voice dropped, sharp and angry. "Cut the dramatics, Charlotte! You know she can't stand the sight of blood, yet you play the martyr to get under her skin. You brought this on yourself."

I looked up at him, tears almost spilling from my eyes.

He stepped closer, anger blazing in his eyes, his voice low and harsh. "Don't push me. You know how fragile she is, and you still pull a stunt like this. Do you have a heart?"

I clutched my icy, rigid fingers tight around the hem of his shirt. "What about Andrew? He had nothing to do with this."

He scoffed. "Once Vivian feels better, I'll have him moved back to the sanitarium."

He softened his tone, assuming he had settled everything. "I know this hurts, Lottie. But my feelings for you haven't changed. Don't force me to choose between you two, okay?"

I let go and turned to leave.

The silent wife died in that hospital room.

He wanted an elegant and tolerant Mrs. Foster, but from now on, that wouldn't be me.

Twenty-eight days remained on the clock, and then I would be entirely free.