Chapter 1
When the impact crumpled the door, I never heard my own scream.
All I heard was Jonathan Carter shouting another name.
"Grace Hughes!"
A second later, he kicked open the passenger door and pulled her, bloodied and dazed, into his arms.
I was trapped, the seatbelt cutting deep into my skin, my knee jammed in the twisted metal, and half my body already gone numb.
Rain hammered against the shattered windows, cold wind rushing in. I watched him disappear into the storm, Grace held tight in his arms. He never once looked back.
In that moment, I stopped struggling.
I finally understood. I would never win against Grace.
*****
By the time the ambulance arrived, I was numb from the pain.
The firefighters pried open the door and carried me out. Blood was all over my left wrist, there was a cut on my forehead, and my leg was covered in bruises.
As I was wheeled into the ER, I heard Jonathan outside through the half-open door. "Treat Grace first. She's a violinist. Her hands can't be damaged."
The doctor asked, "Who is this other woman, Evelyn Lane, to you?"
He paused for a couple of seconds.
"Take care of both," Jonathan said.
It sounded exactly like every answer he'd ever given me.
He never said no, never said yes, never really chose a side, and he never truly stood by me.
I lay there on the hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling, and out of nowhere, I laughed.
The nurse was wrapping up my wounds, her voice gentle. "Does it hurt?"
"Not too bad," I said.
Honestly, the pain was so intense my vision went black.
But what cut even deeper was how unsurprised I felt.
Because this wasn't the first time.
And it wouldn't be the last.
Jonathan pushed the door open and walked in as the doctor finished stitching me up.
His shoulders were still wet from the rain, and there was blood on his shirt cuff. I couldn't tell if it was Grace's or mine.
He asked, "How are you feeling? Are you hurt badly?"
I looked at him, my voice barely above a whisper. "Jonathan, let's get a divorce."
He was clearly taken aback.
He probably hadn't expected me to say that at a moment like this.
He frowned, his tone laced with that familiar restraint and impatience. "Evelyn, you're upset right now. Let's wait until you're calmer to talk about this."
"I'm perfectly calm," I said.
"Today was an accident," he said.
"Yeah," I nodded. "Today was an accident, but every single time you pick her over me, that's no accident."
He stared at me, his brows furrowing. "Is this really the time for your drama?"
I suddenly felt like laughing.
Drama?
In his eyes, even asking for a divorce was me being dramatic.
We'd been married for three years.
In those three years, I stood by him through the hardest days at his company.
I helped him handle the board, shielded him from drinking at business dinners, picked up the pieces after him, and always kept up the appearance of a perfect, gracious wife in front of everyone.
People always said Jonathan was a bit distant, but as far as they could see, he treated me well.
He gave me credit cards, a house, and his last name.
But he never gave me his affection. Not once did he choose me.
And every time, his first instinct was always for Grace, his first love, the one he could never let go of.
I used to believe that if I loved him hard enough, I could make him love me back.
But later I realized, it was not that his heart was cold, it was that the part I wanted was never mine to begin with.
That night, Jonathan didn't say another word to me.
He stood by my hospital bed, silent for ages before finally saying, "Grandma's birthday is next week. Let's talk after that."
Like always, whenever I needed a real answer, all I ever got was, "Let's talk after that."
I closed my eyes. "Okay."
Maybe because I agreed so quickly, he actually paused and looked at me a little longer.
But at that point, I was done explaining myself.
*****
The next morning, I checked myself out of the hospital.
Jonathan went to see Grace.
He sent me a message, [Michael Clark will drive you home. Make sure you take your meds on time.]
It was like he was handling the aftermath, treating me as someone he had to clean up after.
He was neither a husband nor someone who loved me.
When I got home, for the first time, I really looked at the place I'd called home for three years.
Jonathan bought the house and picked out every piece of furniture himself, all black, white, and gray. It was as cold and impersonal as a generic hotel room.
The flowers in the living room were white roses. White was Grace's favorite color.
The crystal glasses in the dining room were imported, the exact same set Grace once showed off on her social media.
The record player in the study was the same brand Grace had been obsessed with back in college.
Even the low-fat yogurt in the fridge was the exact flavor Grace always kept stocked.
But I couldn't drink it because lactose always messed up my stomach.