Page 13 of If He Hadn't Cheated
“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper.
“I know.” He moves to the chair beside the bed but does not sit. “You were barely conscious when I found you. You’re lucky someone saw you collapse called 911.”
I look at him, my vision still hazy. “Why did you come?”
He exhales slowly. “Because you called. Because you sounded like you were dying.”
The words slice through the fog in my head.
“Maybe I was,” I say quietly.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t get to die because he broke you, Lana.”
I flinch. “You think you know everything about me. You think this is about him,” I lie.
Everything is about him and what he did. I just can’t find myself to heal from it.
“I know enough.”
He reaches into his coat and sets my phone on the table beside the bed. The screen is dark, cracked down the center. “I unlocked it to call for help. I saw the photos. The messages. You should delete them.”
I stare at the phone. The black screen reflects my face back at me, pale and hollow. “Why did you go through my phone?.”
He doesn’t answer. But I didn’t expect him to. It’s not like we were good friends.
He turns to leave. “The nurse said you can go home in the morning. I covered the cost for tonight.”
“Why?” My voice shakes. “Why do you care?”
I know he runs his father’s company. That was the plan. Sebastian and Knox would take over the world taking over their respective family’s empire.
He pauses at the door. For a moment, his expression softens. “I don’t know if I do,” he says quietly. “But you don’t deserve to die like this.”
Then he leaves. The door closes behind him. The room feels colder without him in it.
I stare at the ceiling. The heart monitor keeps its rhythm beside me. I match my breathing to it, slow and even, proof that I am still alive.
On the bedside table lies a folded piece of paper. I reach for it with trembling fingers and unfold it.
When you are ready to stop running, call.
The handwriting is neat, deliberate. Knox Cain.
I press the note against my chest as two tears slide down my cheek.
7
The Present
When I get out, I wrap myself in a towel and sit on the edge of my bed, dripping. I stare at my phone. No new messages.
Just silence.
I scroll aimlessly. Social media is a parade of fake smiles and filtered happiness. Engagements. Promotions. Girls I knew in college with babies and husbands and homes.
I have empty bottles and a job that feels like punishment.
And a pain that keeps growing.
