Krystal POV:

The voice on the phone paused, a beat too long. "Divorce? Senator Hurst? Are you certain?"

A sharp stab of pain, quick and brutal, pierced through my carefully constructed calm. It surprised me. I thought all that was gone. Buried. But some ghosts, it seemed, still lingered. Even if they only made themselves known in fleeting, agonizing moments.

It was hard to believe how deeply I had loved him once. Jonathan. My Jonathan. We had grown up in the same small town, two bright kids from different worlds. He was the golden boy, charming and effortlessly brilliant, destined for greatness. I was the quiet, determined girl, always pushing harder, always striving for more.

We were rivals in school, neck and neck for every academic prize. He' d tease me, call me "bookworm," but there was always a playful glint in his eyes. I fell for him, of course. Who wouldn't? He was everything the town admired.

I remembered the day I finally confessed. We were nineteen, about to head off to different universities. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs.

"Jonathan," I' d mumbled, my cheeks burning, "I… I think I love you."

He' d just laughed, a rich, warm sound that usually made my insides melt. "Love me, Krystal? Get the highest score on the national engineering exam, and maybe I'll consider it." It was a joke, of course. A playful dare.

But I wasn't joking. I poured every ounce of my being into that exam. I studied until my eyes burned, until my fingers cramped, until I slept for only a few hours each night. I aced it. Not just the highest score, but a record-breaking performance. I did it for him.

And he, true to his word, had made a grand spectacle of it. A public proposal, roses, a diamond ring that sparkled under the television lights. He called me his "brilliant muse," his "partner in greatness." I felt like the luckiest woman alive. I floated on air for months. I truly believed I had found my happily ever after.

But the truth, like most truths, was far uglier. His proposal hadn' t been about love. It had been a calculated move. A scandalous affair with a campaign intern had threatened to derail his burgeoning political career. My "genius" image, our "academic power couple" narrative, was the perfect shield. A distraction. A carefully constructed facade to save his public image. And I, blinded by my own desperate love, had walked straight into his gilded cage.

"Dr. Mercado?" The voice on the phone pulled me back to the present, gentle but firm. "Are you still there? You seem… distant."

"I'm here," I said, my voice cutting through the lingering echoes of the past. "And I'm not distant. I'm just done. I don't love him anymore. Not even a little bit."

The words felt sharp, severing the last invisible threads. A sense of cold finality settled over me.

Just then, the hospital room door slammed open, rattling its frame. Jonathan stood there, his eyes blazing, his face contorted with a fury I hadn't seen directed at me in years. He must have somehow found out about the call, or at least suspected something was amiss.

"Who are you talking to, Krystal?" he demanded, his voice dangerously low. "What the hell is going on?"

My phone, still pressed against my ear, slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. The line went dead.

He took a step closer, his eyes scanning the room, then landing on me with an intensity that used to make me tremble. Now, it just felt… empty.

"What were you doing?" he repeated, his fists clenched at his sides. "Who were you planning to disappear with?"

Krystal POV:

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Maybe he would leave. Maybe he would just disappear, like I wanted to. His presence felt like a suffocating blanket, heavy and unwelcome.

He sighed, a frustrated, tired sound. "Krystal," he said, his voice softer now, a hint of weariness. "Don't pretend. I know you're awake."

He reached out, his hand shaking my shoulder gently. "What were you dreaming about?" he asked, his voice almost tender. "You were calling out a name. Leo."

The sound of our son's name, spoken by him, felt like a punch to my gut. It was a physical pain, sharp and immediate. I opened my eyes slowly, letting a single tear trace a path down my temple.

He saw it. His face immediately crumpled, his carefully constructed composure cracking. He pulled me into a fierce embrace, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.

"Oh, Krystal," he murmured, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine grief. "Our Leo. I miss him too. So much."

He held me for a long moment, then pulled back, his eyes red-rimmed. "We can have another child, Krystal," he said, his voice full of a desperate hope. "We can, please. Don't give up on us."

My heart, already a stone, turned to ice. Another child? He actually thought another child could replace Leo? Could erase the searing pain, the gaping hole in my soul? He didn' t understand. He never understood. He couldn't even see the horror of his own words. I felt nothing but a chilling emptiness. No tears came, even though my heart felt like it was being ripped apart.

"Why are you here, Jonathan?" I asked, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I pulled away from his embrace, the contact feeling wrong, alien.

He hesitated, a strange look flickering across his face. He avoided my gaze. "Hailey… she's feeling unwell," he mumbled, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. "Her stomach is upset. She asked if you could… make her some of your special soup."

My body went rigid. My elbow throbbed, a fresh wave of pain coursing through me. I was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from a brutal assault instigated by his own mother, and he was asking me to make soup for Hailey? The woman whose negligence led to our son's death? The woman he always prioritized over me?

He saw my frozen expression, saw my bandaged arm. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of belated realization. "No, no, of course not, Krystal," he quickly corrected, his voice a little too loud. "I didn't mean… I mean, could you just write down the recipe for me? I can make it."

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I remembered all the times I' d stayed up late, carefully simmering that soup for him, for his high-stress job, knowing he suffered from stomach issues. I' d done it even when I was exhausted, even when I had my own stomach problems he never once noticed. He never offered to make it for me. Never.

"Sure," I said, my voice hollow. "Get me a pen and paper."

He quickly scrambled to find them, his relief palpable. As I scribbled down the ingredients, his eyes lingered on my hand, now steady and precise. He used to say my hands were made for delicate work, for healing. But he hadn't complimented them in years.

He took the paper from me, his fingers brushing mine. They lingered, as if expecting the warmth that was no longer there. His face was etched with a strange, aching sorrow. He remembered how I used to promise him forever, how my love for him was an unshakeable fortress. Now, that fortress was crumbling, and he was realizing it. He still clung to the deluded belief that I would never truly leave him, that a divorce was impossible.

"Jonathan," a hurried voice called from the doorway. "Hailey is asking for you again. She's really quite distressed."

He cursed under his breath, his eyes fixed on me. "I'll be right back, Krystal," he repeated, the same empty promise he' d given last night.

He turned and strode out, his footsteps heavy. I heard him quickly ascend the stairs to Hailey' s room.

I closed my eyes again, and drifted into a numb, hollow sleep.

I woke to a sudden, violent shove. I cried out, pain flaring in my elbow, as I tumbled from the bed, landing hard on the cold floor.

"You bitch!" Jonathan's voice was a guttural roar, filled with a terrifying rage I had never heard directed at me. It was cold, cutting, like a blade. "What did you put in that soup, Krystal? What poison did you give her?"

He stood over me, his hands shaking, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He grabbed the front of my hospital gown, yanking me up until my feet barely touched the floor.

"Did you try to kill her?" he snarled, his eyes wide and wild. "Did you? Just like you killed our son?"

Krystal POV:

The words hung in the air, thick and foul. He accused me of killing our son. Again. Just like his mother, just like his relatives. The pain in my elbow screamed, but my heart remained utterly silent.

"Maybe," I murmured, my voice raspy from the fall. I didn't care to argue. I didn't care to defend myself. It was too late for all that. "Maybe you just needed someone to blame."

He stared at me, his grip tightening on my gown. "You think this is a joke?"

"No," I answered, my voice still flat. "I think you' re in pain, and you need a target. If that target is me, then so be it. Do what you have to do."

I knew this dance. I' d danced it countless times before. Hailey would do something, make a mistake, or simply find a way to manipulate Jonathan. And when the consequences came, or when he needed to deflect, I was always the convenient scapegoat. He wouldn't truly believe I' d poison someone. He just needed to lash out. He needed a villain. And I was always ready to play the part. He was never truly blind to Hailey' s manipulations; he just needed a cover, someone to absorb the fallout.

The casual way I accepted his accusation seemed to choke him. He let go of my gown, pushing me back until I hit the wall. Hard.

"Why are you like this, Krystal?" he demanded, his voice dropping, tinged with a raw, desperate confusion. "Why do you hate me so much? I'm not your enemy."

I closed my eyes. "I have nothing to say, Jonathan."

My silence was a wall between us. A thick, impenetrable wall I had built brick by brick. His heart, I could almost feel it, began to tremble. He was losing control. He was losing me. And that scared him.

"We need to be together, Krystal," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "For Leo. We should keep vigil for him tonight. Together. Like a family."

My body stiffened, but my eyes remained closed. His words were a cruel mockery.

"Senator," a voice called from the door, tentative. "Ms. Young is asking for you. She's had a rough night."

He let out a low growl, a flicker of his old self. "Tell her I'll be there in a moment!" he snapped. Then he turned to me, his voice softening again, though it felt like a theatrical performance. "I'll be back tomorrow, Krystal. We'll go home. Together."

He left. I stayed awake all night, the image of Leo's innocent face, so full of life, flashing behind my eyelids. The sheer agony he must have felt, alone in the cold water. My heart felt torn to shreds, a gaping wound that would never heal. His little hands, reaching, gasping. My beautiful boy.

The next morning, Jonathan was there, waiting for me. He walked me out of the hospital, his hand on my back, a picture of a devoted husband. We drove home in silence, the air heavy with unspoken grief and the chilling certainty of my impending escape.

Our house, once filled with Leo's laughter, was now a mausoleum. The scent of lilies and sorrow hung heavy in the air. The living room had been transformed into a somber wake. Leo' s tiny coffin, draped in white, sat at the front.

I walked stiffly, my injured arm aching, my heart numb. As I approached the coffin, a figure lunged at me. Jonathan's mother. Her eyes were wild, her face contorted with rage.

"You murderer!" she screamed, her hand striking my face, then my chest. "You killed my grandson! You killed Leo!"

My head snapped back from the impact of her blow. The accusation hit me harder than the physical pain. It wasn't just her anger. It was… a familiar accusation. Too familiar.

I looked at Jonathan, who stood a few feet away. His eyes shifted, avoiding mine. A cold understanding settled over me. This wasn't just his mother's grief; this was his narrative. He had told them. He wanted me to be the scapegoat.

"Get out!" she shrieked, her voice raspy. "Get out of my son's house! You don't deserve to mourn him!"

Then, a wave of other relatives, fueled by their own grief and her venom, surged forward. Hands clawed at me, pushing, hitting. Words like "monster," "evil," "unfit mother" rained down.

I stumbled backwards, falling to my knees. A cousin, a woman who used to hug me tight, now spat on me. Another, a man who once helped me fix a leaky faucet, raised a heavy wooden stick, bringing it down on my shoulder.

"She doesn't deserve to be here!" someone yelled. "Get her out! She's cursed!"

They dragged me, bruised and bleeding, out of the house. Out of Leo's wake. They threw me onto the cold, damp lawn, slamming the door shut behind me. I lay there, abandoned, alone, deprived of even the right to say goodbye to my own son.