Chapter 1
Charlotte Reed said our family had to cut back on expenses, so she wouldn't approve the 30,000 dollars for my surgery.
I missed the best chance to heal my injured left leg, and now it was permanently disabled.
Three days later, I saw a post from her childhood friend on Instagram.
It was a picture of a watch, worth 180,000 dollars.
The caption read, [Lottie gave me this for my birthday. She always remembers what I like.]
I didn't make a scene or ask Charlotte why.
I liked the post and left a comment. [Brilliant. Hope you two stay like this forever.]
*****
When the Instagram post popped up, I was sitting on a bench in the hallway of the Rehabilitation Department.
The cold metal of the bench pressed against my shinbone, the chill seeping through my pants. My left leg hung there, as if it didn't belong to me, limp and unresponsive.
The sharp smell of disinfectant overwhelmed my senses, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A nurse pushed a treatment cart past me, its wheels rattling over the cracks in the tiles. I heard clacks.
My phone buzzed suddenly.
Andrew Scott had posted a new update.
I didn't want to open it.
He and Charlotte had so many mutual friends that the algorithm kept pushing his posts in my face, like someone deliberately making me see the reality.
I was about to scroll past, but my thumb froze.
The image appeared on my screen.
A watch. A box. The edge of a receipt peeking out. It was 180,000 dollars.
Charlotte's hand rested on the edge of the gift box, her nails still showing off the fresh color she'd gotten two days ago.
The caption was light and breezy. "Lottie gave me this for my birthday. She always remembers what I like."
A lot of people were hyping it up in the commenting area.
One remarked, "Miss Reed, you went all out."
"Drew, you're so lucky," another commented.
A third one wrote, "It's basically illegal for you two not to be together."
I stared at those words, feeling as if there was a lump in my throat.
Three days ago, I was lying in a hospital room of the Orthopedics Department ward when the doctor showed Charlotte my test results. "Mr. Grant's common peroneal nerve injury isn't an emergency, but there's only a short window to fix it.
"The longer you put it off, the harder it'll be to recover. The surgery deposit is 30,000 dollars. You should get it done ASAP."
Charlotte stood at the foot of the bed, her bag strap hanging from her wrist. She didn't look up after hearing those words.
"Did you say 30,000 dollars?" she asked.
The doctor nodded. "Rehab comes later, but Mr. Grant needs the surgery first."
Charlotte folded the payment slip and set it back on the nightstand.
"Our family's cash flow is tight right now. Let's go with conservative treatment for now," she said.
I pushed myself up from the bed, my leg throbbing with a dull, heavy numbness.
"Charlotte, the doctor said it could ruin my ability to walk," I said.
Charlotte looked at me, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was afraid the others in the room would hear how unreasonable I was being.
"Ethan, do you always have to come to me for money whenever something goes wrong? It's not like I make money easily. Thirty thousand dollars isn't 300 dollars," she said.
The doctor parted his lips, but in the end, he swallowed his words.
I heard the family member from the next bed pouring water, the water splashing loudly into the water glass.
My face burned for a moment, then quickly went cold.
"Lend me the money, then. I'll owe you," I said.
Charlotte chuckled.
"We're married, and you're still talking about borrowing money? You know how to work the system," she remarked.
When she left that day, she took the payment slip with her.
"I need to cool off. We'll talk about it tomorrow," she said.
She didn't show up the next day.
On the third day, she said she was busy at work.
On the fourth day, I called her 17 times. When she finally picked up, she snapped, "Can you stop blowing up my phone? I'm with Drew at an art show. He's in a bad mood today."
I tried borrowing from colleagues, asking friends for help, and applying for a credit loan. But the bank flagged it as a joint marital debt and called Charlotte to confirm. She hung up right in front of me.
"Stop with all these random loans. Do you think interest is free?" she said.
By the time I finally scraped together some money, the doctor looked at my X-rays, his finger pausing on the report.
"The window period has already passed. We can still do the surgery, but you need to be ready for whatever happens," he said.
They still did the surgery.
My left foot, however, wouldn't move anymore.
The rehab therapist said I'd have to wear a brace to walk, and if things got worse, I'd need a cane.
I didn't cry then.
I wasn't crying now, either.
I only kept my eyes on Andrew's Instagram post, the watch and Charlotte's name.
'Fine. Good for you,' I thought.
My thumb hovered over the like button for three seconds before I finally pressed it.
The screen lit up for a moment.
Then, I typed out a comment. "Brilliant. Hope you two stay like this forever."
As soon as I hit send, my phone started blowing up.
Andrew was the first to reply. "Ethan, don't take it the wrong way. Lottie gave me a gift between friends."
I didn't reply.
A minute later, Charlotte called.
I stared at her caller ID on the screen without answering, letting it ring until it finally went silent.
She called again. And again.
Someone was calling out numbers at the end of the hallway, and then the nurse called my name.
I switched my phone to silent, gripped the armrest, and hauled myself up.
When my left foot touched down, my knee suddenly gave out, and the brace bit into my skin, leaving a dull, throbbing pain.
The rehab therapist reached out to steady me.
"Take it slow," she said.
I nodded in response and headed toward the treatment room.
My phone kept buzzing in my pocket, pressed against my leg.
That leg was so numb that I could barely feel a thing.
But I knew for sure that Charlotte was anxious right now.
It wasn't about whether I was in pain.
What bothered her was that I'd torn off her polished facade in front of all our mutual friends.