Krystal POV:

He paused, his hand hovering in the air behind me. My words were a shield, impenetrable, unyielding. I used to make him that soup even when I was sick, even when my hands trembled from exhaustion. I used to laugh it off, tell him his hard work deserved the best. He never once offered to make it for me. Not once.

Now, his stomach hurt, and I couldn't care less. I just wanted him gone.

"Krystal," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "What is it? What do you want from me? You're suffocating me with this silence. This coldness. It's… it's killing me."

I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch his gaze. "Suffocating?" I repeated, my tone like ice. "Is that what you call it? All those times I asked for your attention, for your time, for your simple presence, and you told me I was 'suffocating' you? You told me I was 'too clingy,' 'too demanding'? Is that what you mean, Jonathan?"

He reeled back as if I had struck him. His jaw hung open, his face pale. He remembered. Every cruel word, every dismissive gesture. He remembered all the times he had brushed me off, telling me to "handle it myself," calling my concerns "petty" compared to his grand political ambitions. He remembered, and the memory was a physical pain, a sharp, burning agony in his own chest.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. "You're still angry about Leo," he said, the words heavy with a misplaced certainty. "I know, Krystal. I know I messed up. But I promise you, I'll make it up to you. I'll fix everything. I'll win you back."

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. It felt like nothing. A ghost of a touch, devoid of meaning. Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut. I waited, counting the seconds, until I heard the distant rumble of his car pulling away.

My phone, which I had retrieved from the floor, buzzed. It was the civil affairs bureau.

"Dr. Mercado," the clerk's voice was bright. "Your divorce application has been finalized. You can pick up your certificate this afternoon."

Another call came almost immediately. The aerospace base.

"Dr. Mercado, the confidential project is ready to launch. We'll be sending a team to pick you up. Are you still able to leave within two weeks?"

"Yes," I confirmed, my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. "I'll be ready. Please arrange for the pick-up at the civil affairs bureau. I won't be returning to the house."

I hung up, a hollow ache in my chest. This was it. The day I' d been planning for, meticulously, for months. The day I finally broke free. But before I left, there was one last thing I needed to do. One final, agonizing piece of the puzzle.

I rose from the hospital bed, my body still stiff and sore, but propelled by a grim determination. I grabbed the crutches the nurse had left for me and slowly, painfully, made my way down the hall. To Hailey' s room.

She looked up as I entered, a smug, triumphant smirk on her face. Gone was the fragile, sweet facade. Her eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on me.

"So, the little mouse finally came to say goodbye?" she sneered. "Jonathan is mine now, Krystal. He always has been. He just needed you for show."

I leaned heavily on my crutches, my gaze unwavering. "I don't care about your childish games of possession, Hailey," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I just want the truth. Did you intentionally let Leo drown?"

She let out a harsh, barking laugh, a sound that twisted my gut. "Intentionally? Oh, Krystal, you wouldn't believe what people are capable of. The truth would shatter you."

"Try me," I said, gritting my teeth, my knuckles white on the crutches. "I'm already broken."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, savoring every word. "Jonathan... he was actually there, you know. At the lake house. Right before Leo went under."

My blood ran cold. My heart slammed against my ribs, a desperate, frantic beat.

"He saw Leo struggling," she continued, her eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure. "But he didn't jump in immediately, did he? No. He saw me panicking, saw me on the verge of a breakdown. And he chose to comfort me first."

The world tilted. My vision blurred, red-tinged. My veins felt like they were bursting, hot and violent. The sterile hospital room warped into a slaughterhouse, the white walls splattered with red. Jonathan. My husband. My son' s father. He was there. And he chose her. Over Leo.

A single, burning tear escaped, tracing a path through the dust and grime on my cheek. The last tear. I vowed it then. The very last.

I wiped it away with the back of my hand, my body trembling, but my resolve hardening into steel. I turned, pushing myself on my crutches, my head held high. No more, Jonathan. No more. There would be no tomorrow for us.

I spent the rest of the day and all night outside the civil affairs bureau. I just sat there, waiting. At precisely 9 AM, I walked in, my divorce certificate in hand. I asked the clerk to mail Jonathan's. There was no need for him to pick it up.

As I stepped out, a military jeep, dark and imposing, pulled up to the curb. It was time.

Before I got in, I opened my bag. Inside, a sealed envelope. It contained a copy of the recorded conversation with Hailey, along with a detailed report I had meticulously prepared. I dropped it into the nearest mailbox, addressed to Jonathan's superior. Justice for Leo. And for me.

The jeep door opened. I climbed in, my heart feeling lighter than it had in years. Finally. Free.

Jonathan POV:

I hustled into the kitchen, a frantic energy thrumming through me. Krystal had been through so much. I had been through so much. But now… now I would fix it. I would win her back.

"What does Krystal like to eat?" I asked the housekeeper, my voice a little too loud, a little too eager. "Something special. Not the usual bland hospital food."

The housekeeper looked at me, a strange expression on her face. "Sir, Dr. Mercado usually just eats whatever is available. She's not picky."

"No, no, that won't do," I insisted, my jaw tight. "Something she loves. Something that shows I care. Something… healthy, but delicious."

"Well," the housekeeper offered hesitantly, "she used to enjoy the steamed sea bass. With a little ginger and scallions."

Sea bass. Right. I nodded, a plan forming. It wasn' t a complicated dish, but it required attention, care. Something I hadn' t given Krystal in too long.

I spent the next two hours in the kitchen, a place I rarely entered. The steam from the pot fogged my glasses. I chopped, I seasoned, I carefully monitored the cooking time. My hands, usually so steady with policy papers and handshake deals, fumbled with the ingredients. But I persevered. For Krystal.

As I carefully transferred the perfectly cooked fish into a thermos, a realization hit me, stark and brutal. This was the first time I had ever cooked for her. The first time I had made her a meal, with my own hands, driven by my own volition. A bitter taste filled my mouth. How much had I taken her for granted? How blind had I been?

I imagined her face, lighting up when I presented the thermos. Her soft smile, her grateful eyes. She would be surprised. Pleased. Maybe even a little touched. This was it. This was the beginning of our fresh start.

My heart hammered with a desperate hope. I grabbed the thermos and rushed out, my footsteps echoing through the silent halls of the hospital. Krystal, I thought, I' m coming. I' m going to make this right.

I pushed open the door to her room, a wide smile plastered on my face. "Krystal, I made-"

The words died in my throat.

The bed was empty. Unmade. No Krystal.

My heart lurched, a sickening knot forming in my stomach. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my chest. No. This can't be happening.

She must have just gone to the bathroom. Or maybe she was taking a walk, trying to stretch her injured leg. Yes, that had to be it. She was just nearby.

"Krystal?" I called out, my voice betraying the tremor in my hands. "Krystal, where are you?"

Silence. Only the faint whirring of the medical equipment answered me.

I rushed to the nurses' station, my voice tight with urgency. "Where is Dr. Mercado? My wife, Krystal? She's not in her room."

The nurse, a young woman with wide, startled eyes, looked up from her computer. "Dr. Mercado? I… I don't know, Senator. I haven't seen her. No one has pushed her out in a wheelchair."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" I roared, slamming my hand on the counter. The thermos clattered loudly. "She's injured! She can't just disappear! Find her! Now!"

The nurse flinched, her face paling. "Yes, Senator! I'll check immediately!" She scurried away, her feet pounding down the hall.

A cold dread spread through me, chilling me to the bone. This wasn't right. This wasn't Krystal. She wouldn't just leave without a word. Not after everything. Not after Leo.

No. She wouldn't. She couldn't. My mind raced, trying to find a logical explanation. But there was none. Only a growing, suffocating certainty that something was terribly, fundamentally wrong. I needed to see her. Needed to hold her. Needed to make her understand.

"Get me the director," I barked at another startled nurse. "And prepare all security footage. Every single camera in this hospital. I want to see every second of the last twelve hours."

I would find her. No matter what.