---- Chapter 55 "Mr. Cole," the nurse said, her tone suddenly formal and disapproving. "Your wife has been asking for you. She was brought in quite some time ago. We tried calling." Ethan looked flustered. "I... | was with Chloe. She was... extremely traumatized by the incident. | had to make sure she was okay." His priority. Stated so clearly. So calmly. The nurse just raised an eyebrow. | looked at him. My husband. "What are you doing here now, Ethan?" | asked. My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, | was at the hospital anyway." "Oh?" "Yes. Chloe was so traumatized, she insisted on seeing a psychiatrist. Here. At this hospital. And | happened to see your name on the patient list when | was at the admissions desk." Happened to see my name. Like | was a casual acquaintance he'd stumbled upon. Not his wife, who'd been injured in the same accident he'd witnessed. The accident where he chose to save her, not me. Disappointment, so sharp and familiar, pierced through the ---- fog of my concussion. His phone buzzed. Chloe, no doubt. He glanced at it. "Excuse me." He stepped out into the hallway to take the call. | could hear his voice, low and soothing. "Yes, Chloe... No, I'm just... checking on something... Of course, I'll be right there." He came back in, looking harried. "| have to go. Chloe needs me. Her psychiatrist wants to discuss her treatment plan." He barely glanced at me, at my bandaged arm, the bruises already forming on my face. "The doctor said you'll be fine. Just a mild concussion. They'll probably discharge you tomorrow." He was already backing out of the room. "I'll, uh, check in later." And then he was gone. Again. Always gone, when Chloe called. | lay there, staring at the blank ceiling. Later, a different nurse told me | could walk around a bit if | felt up to it. | needed to move. To think. | wandered down the corridor, towards the psychiatric wing. | saw them through a small window in a consultation room ---- door. Ethan was sitting beside Chloe, holding her hand, as she spoke to a therapist. He was listening intently, his expression a mask of concern and tenderness. The same tenderness he'd shown her at the fire, at the restaurant. The tenderness he never, ever showed me. Chloe was dabbing her eyes, her voice trembling as she recounted her "ordeal." Ethan would murmur something, squeeze her hand, offer her a tissue. He knew her so well. He knew her tells, her fears, her history. He was answering the therapist's questions about Chloe's past traumas, her anxieties, her medication history. He knew it all. Intimately. He was her rock. Her protector. Her everything. And | was... nothing. The wife in name only. The inconvenient appendage. The therapist was a kind-looking woman. She was nodding, making notes. "Given Ms. Vance's history and the severity of this recent trauma," the therapist said, her voice audible through the slightly ajar door, "I'd recommend she not be left alone for the next few weeks. Constant companionship, a stable ---- environment, that's crucial for her recovery." Ethan's head snapped up. "Not be left alone? For weeks?" His voice was tight with anger. Not at Chloe. At the situation. At anything that threatened Chloe. "I'll take her to the family estate in Napa. It's quiet there. Secure. She can heal." He was already making plans. To take her away. To care for her. To dedicate his life, his time, his energy, to her. A "healing trip." For Chloe. While | recovered from my injuries alone. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. He was capable of deep love. Profound care. Unwavering devotion. Just not for me. Never for me. It was a final, painful acceptance. There was nothing left to salvage. Nothing left to fight for. | turned and walked back to my room. My steps felt heavy, but my mind was clear. It was time to end this. For my sanity. For my future. To grant him the freedom he so clearly craved, to be with her. And to grant myself the same.