Chapter 3

At ten that night, I went home first.

The living room lights were off.

I pulled the emergency medical kit from the entryway and set it down by the door.

Inside were the sublingual tablets, sedatives, monitoring patches, and spare wristbands Andrew always needed during an episode.

No matter how late I used to get home, I would always check its contents first, terrified something might go wrong with him in the middle of the night.

Tonight, I didn't check.

I simply printed a fresh inventory list, taped it to the outside of the box, and headed to the study.

In the very back of the drawer sat the wedding ring.

It was a delicate band of platinum, engraved with "H&L" on the inner surface. He had bought it the day we registered our marriage.

"Bear with this one for now," he'd said back then. "I'll get you a proper one later."

Later never came.

I took the ring out and set it on the medical file folder I had brought home today.

A tiny circle of silver resting on the corner of a white page—like a period that was three years late.

My phone lit up right then.

It was a reminder from Emily, the clinic nurse.

Emily: [Dr. Lane, your erasure procedure is scheduled for tomorrow morning as reserved.]

I looked at the notification and replied with two words: [Keep it.]

Emily quickly sent over the confirmation form.

The target of the erasure, pre-op assessment, and level of emotional connection were all logged.

I hit submit—as casually as sending off a routine email.

At 1:17 in the morning, my phone vibrated violently.

It was Andrew.

When I picked up, there was only heavy, labored breathing on the other end.

The sound of shattering glass leaked through the receiver, like a cup being hurled against the floor.

He couldn't get out a coherent sentence, only repeating my name over and over. "Vivian, come here."

It had been a long time since I last heard him call me like that.

Not the cool, restrained "Dr. Lane" from daytime, but the instinctive call of a man out of control, clinging to the only person he remembered.

I stood up, threw on my coat, and walked downstairs.

As I passed the entryway, I glanced at the medical kit resting by the door.

After a two-second pause, I picked it up anyway.

Andrew's penthouse wasn't far from the hospital.

I used to be able to find every light switch in that place with my eyes closed.

The keypad lock hadn't been changed yet. I entered the six-digit code, and the door clicked open.

Residual damage littered the living room floor: a shattered glass, curtains pulled lopsided, and medicine bottles knocked off the coffee table.

Andrew sat on the floor beside the sofa, his back pressed against the wall, forehead soaked in cold sweat.

His eyes were bloodshot, his breathing so erratic it sounded like he might snap at any moment.

I set down the medical kit, turned off the main living room light first, and pulled the floor-to-ceiling drapes completely shut.

In this state, he couldn't handle bright light, ambient noise, or anyone trying to touch him in a panic.

I crouched in front of him, skipping any useless questions. "Look at me."

His gaze remained unfocused for a long time before slowly fixing on my face.

"Breathe with me," I said. "Inhale for four, exhale for six."

I raised the sedative spray to his lips while holding down his trembling wrist.

His skin was burning hot, his pulse alarmingly fast. But the moment he felt my touch, he slowly started to ground himself.

Ten minutes later, the shaking finally stopped.

Twenty minutes later, the cold sweat on his forehead began to recede.

Leaning back against the couch as a man dragged from the deep end, he murmured in a low voice, "Don't leave."

I had heard those words far too many times.

When he had his first seizure after surgery.

When his career hit rock bottom, and the board tried to oust him.

When nightmares plagued him all night, and he clawed at his wrists, refusing to sleep.

Every time, he begged me not to leave.

And every time he woke up clear-headed the next day, he always had other priorities.

I placed a monitoring patch on the side of his neck and said evenly, "I won't leave tonight."

He closed his eyes, looking as if he had finally come back to life, though his fingers still gripped the hem of my coat tightly—as if terrified I might vanish.

Right then, the doorbell rang.

Urgent, relentless chime after chime.

Andrew winced, flinching at the sound.

I got up to answer it.

Julia stood outside, wrapped in a camel trench coat with not a single hair out of place. Andrew's assistant, Ethan, trailed right behind her.

Her eyes drifted to the medical kit in my hand before she looked past me into the room. "How is he?"

Her tone was measured, almost clinical.

I stepped aside to let them in. "He's stable now."

She nodded and walked in quickly, her high heels making barely a sound across the foyer floor. She really was poised—the picture of someone who belonged by his side.

Ethan followed her in and offered a quiet explanation. "Mr. Hughes suddenly started acting off during the video conference, and nobody could calm him down. Then he kept calling your name, so I called you. I just didn't expect—"

He cut himself off mid-sentence.

He hadn't expected me to get here first.

Julia was already at Andrew's side, crouching down in front of him. "Andrew," she called softly.

Andrew looked up, his expression clearing a bit when he saw her. Then his gaze drifted past her and landed on me.

It was a brief glance—just long enough to check that I was still there.

A second later, he spoke. "Vivian, step outside for a moment."

I didn't move.

He paused, then added, "Julia just got back. Don't upset her."

The room fell dead silent.

Ethan lowered his head, and Julia stayed quiet, merely pressing her lips together.

He delivered those words even more casually than his instruction to skip the family dinner last night—as if it hadn't even crossed his mind that he was hurting me.

I picked up the medical kit off the floor and straightened up. "Alright."

From start to finish, I didn't give Julia a second look.

The moment the door shut behind me, the last faint trace of medicine scent was cut off.

On the ride down in the elevator, I looked down at the back of my hand.

Where I had held him down during his episode, he had left a faint red scratch.

It was shallow. It would fade in a little while.

Just like everything else.