Chapter5
Work became my sanctuary, my escape, my obsession. I poured every ounce of my energy into my company, into proving to the world, and to myself, that I was more than just Mark Wilson’s soon–to–be–ex–wife.
I barely slept, fueled by endless cups of coffee and the thrill of proving myself, of building something from the ground up, something that was mine, all mine. I was making a name for myself in the cutthroat world of tech startups, earning the respect of my peers, and most importantly, proving to myself that I could do it, that I didn’t need Mark, that I never
had.
But my body, pushed to its limits, eventually rebelled.
One morning, I woke up on the floor of my office, a searing pain ripping through my stomach. I tried to get up, to call for help, but the room started to spin, and then everything
went black.
I woke up in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic assaulting my nostrils, an IV drip in my arm. The doctor, a kind–faced woman with tired eyes, explained that I had a bleeding ulcer, brought on by stress and exhaustion.
“One more day,” she’d said, her voice firm but gentle, “and we might have been having a very different conversation about surgery.”
Surgery. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Was this what my life had become? A cautionary tale about ambition and the high cost of proving yourself to the world?
Mark wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t. He was too busy with his “business trip,” living it up with Jessica while I lay in a hospital bed, my body paying the price for his betrayal. It was Sarah, my colleague and newfound friend, who’d found me unconscious and called the ambulance. She’d even called my estranged mother, the one person I’d sworn I’d never speak to again, and convinced her to come to the hospital.
Mark finally called on the third day, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine concern. Or maybe it was just guilt. It was hard to tell with him anymore.
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice contrite, almost convincing. “I just heard. Are you
apters
okay?”
“Where are you, Mark?” My voice was a weak croak, raw from the medication and the
emotional turmoil that raged within me.
“I’m… I’m stuck at this conference,” he stammered, his voice tight. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he scrambled for a believable excuse. “It’s… important. But I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”
He hung up before I could remind him that his promises were as worthless as the stock options he’d used to lure me away from my promising career all those years ago.
A few minutes later, a delivery arrived: a bouquet of cheap grocery store carnations, their sickly–sweet scent already wilting, and a styrofoam container of lukewarm porridge.
“That’s for you, honey,” the nurse chirped, her tone overly cheerful as she placed the sad offerings on my bedside table. “Your husband sounds like a real keeper.”
I almost laughed. Keeper? Mark was about as reliable as a house of cards in a hurricane. He was a master of grand gestures and empty promises, a man who mistook charm for character and infatuation for love.
Later that afternoon, as I scrolled through Instagram, a fresh wave of nausea washed over me. Jessica had posted a picture of herself at some trendy new restaurant, a self–satisfied. smirk on her face, a bowl of steaming lobster bisque in front of her. The caption, dripping with smugness, made me want to hurl: “Mark knows how to take care of a girl. #BestBoyfriendEver
Apparently, Mark’s definition of “taking care” involved cheap flowers and bland hospital food for his wife, while his mistress dined on gourmet meals and basked in the glow of his
stolen affections.
The injustice of it all was almost comical. He was so transparent, so predictable, so utterly
clueless.
That’s when I knew. I was done. Really, truly done.
The anger that had been simmering inside me, fueled by years of resentment and disappointment, finally boiled over. I ripped the IV drip out of my arm, ignoring the sharp sting of protest, and threw the lukewarm porridge against the wall, the white styrofoam
Say Sorry
Chapters
container exploding in a shower of glutinous goo.
Mark showed up the next day, the day I was discharged, looking tanned and rested, like he’d just stepped off a yacht instead of a five–hour flight from his latest rendezvous with his.
mistress.
“Ready to go home, babe?” he asked, his voice overly cheerful, as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn’t spent the past week battling a bleeding ulcer and a broken heart. He didn’t even have the decency to feign remorse.
He took a step towards me, his arms outstretched, and that’s when he finally saw it. The look in my eyes. The anger, the hurt, the cold, hard steel that had replaced the love and adoration I’d once showered upon him so freely.
He flinched, as if I’d struck him. “What’s wrong, Amelia?”
“What’s wrong?” I repeated, my voice dangerously quiet. I picked up the crumpled divorce papers that had been lying on my bedside table, the ones he’d refused to sign, the ones that represented my freedom, my escape, my chance at a fresh start.
“This is what’s wrong, Mark!” I shouted, my voice raw with the pain and fury I’d kept bottled up for far too long. “While you were wining and dining your mistress, I was in this hospital, almost dying because of you! I poured years of my life into you, into your dreams, into this… this charade of a marriage, and you threw it all away without a second thought. You made me choose between my health and my happiness, and for what? For her?”
He reached for me, his hand outstretched, a look of panic flitting across his face as he finally realized the depth of my anger, the extent of his betrayal.
I shrugged off his touch.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice cold, hard. “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me.”
He froze, his hand hovering in midair, his face a mask of confusion and hurt.
“Amelia,” he stammered, his voice pleading, “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean…
“Didn’t mean what, Mark?” I cut him off, my voice sharp as broken glass. “Didn’t mean to fall in love with her? Didn’t mean to humiliate me? Didn’t mean to make me feel like I was nothing, like I was invisible?”
Chapters
“No,” he whispered, his face crumpling, the carefully constructed mask of arrogance finally cracking to reveal the fear beneath. “That’s not… that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean, Mark? What were you thinking?” My voice was quiet now, devoid of anger, just a weary acceptance of the truth that had been staring me in the face for far too long.
He opened his mouth to speak, to offer another one of his empty apologies, his meaningless promises. But I stopped him with a look.
“Just go, Mark,” I said, my voice hollow, empty. “Just… go.”
He stood there for a moment longer, his shoulders slumped, his eyes filled with a pain I no longer recognized, a pain I no longer felt. Then, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the silence, a stark reminder of the emptiness he’d left behind.
