Nigel Ainsworth, my ex-husband, had just been appointed my new boss. Staring at his handsome, stone-cold face, the memory of his betrayal from three years ago tightened around my heart like a vise. The hands that once set my body on fire now signed off on surgical directives, and the thought made my stomach clench. I let my voice drip with ice. "Dr. Ainsworth, if you'd shown this much backbone three years ago, we might not be in this position." Without a second glance, I spun on my heel and strode out of the suffocating office, my heels echoing sharply on the polished floor.

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1

The moment I stepped out of the office, a few nurses immediately swarmed me.

"Dr. Barnes, do you know the new Director of Surgery?"

"No," I said, my voice clipped. I just wanted the topic to die.

"Oh my god, Jules, that Dr. Ainsworth is so young! I heard he's a Hopkins grad... and apparently, he's single."

That comment sent a ripple of excitement through the nurses' station. A few of the more gossip-prone nurses began to chatter, the sound grating on my last nerve.

"Dream on," I shattered their fantasy. "He's been married. And divorced."

I ignored their stunned silence, grabbed my handbag, and prepared to leave for the day.

"How do you know so much about him?" a young nurse persisted, unwilling to let it go.

A bitter laugh escaped me. How could I not know? I was the ex-wife he'd abandoned.

I didn't bother to explain, heading straight for the elevator. The moment the doors slid shut, the knot in my shoulders began to loosen. I had told myself a thousand times not to let the past define me, but seeing Nigel Ainsworth again, as my superior, my guarded heart couldn't help but throb with a familiar ache.

We had been married for five years.

For our fifth anniversary, I'd planned every detail of the hospital's charity gala, eager to celebrate with him. Instead, he was in the hospital's glass conservatory, holding Chloe Sinclair—my best friend. The photo went viral on the hospital's internal forum. Overnight, they became the Seattle medical community's new power couple.

The saccharine congratulations, that single, viral photo—none of it had anything to do with me. I hid in an empty locker room and dialed his number.

"Nigel, I want a divorce."

There was a beat of silence, then his voice, tight with anger, "Jules, what kind of game are you playing?"

"I'm sending the papers to your email," I said, and hung up.

When I got home, the flames in the fireplace danced quietly. I pulled a thick roll of blueprints from a desk drawer. They were the designs for the lakeside cabin we had dreamed of. I once believed it would be our forever home, but now, poring over the drawings, a painful irony struck me. From choosing the site to drafting the plans, through every single revision, the only handwriting was mine. This "shared dream" had been my solo project from the very beginning.

He was never really part of it.

I stared blankly at the stack of blueprints that held all my love and hope, and then, one by one, I fed them to the fire. The crisp blue pages curled, blackened, and turned to ash, just like the future between us that had never even begun.

That was it. The one-sided marriage was over.

The next day, I moved into the loft apartment I’d already lined up in Pioneer Square. When I woke up, my phone showed several missed calls from Nigel. His voicemail was a sharp, irritated interrogation. "What is this, Jules? All your stuff is gone. We were supposed to celebrate our anniversary. Where the hell are you?"

I deleted it without a second thought. I was used to it. The late nights I worked in the ER, my own birthday, every moment I needed him—one call from Chloe was all it took for him to vanish. He'd show up the next day with a gift, his indignant questions painting me as the unreasonable one. It used to be that a small peace offering was all it took for me to swallow my pride and become his shadow again. But this time, I was just... done.

After work, he cornered me in the hospital parking lot. Dressed in a deep blue suit, he looked tall and imposing against the setting sun.

"Jules, Owen is throwing a welcome party for me tonight. You're coming." His tone was a command, not an invitation.

Against my better judgment, I got into his car. Maybe it was the familiar pull of his authority, or maybe I was just hungry.

On the way, a faint, sweet perfume hung in the air—the niche brand Chloe adored.

"When did you start wearing cologne?" I asked, feigning nonchalance.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "I don't."

I said nothing. If he was telling the truth, it only confirmed they were close enough for her scent to cling to him. The thought was nauseating.

We drove the rest of the way in silence. The moment we arrived, Owen Grant’s face split into a wide grin. "Nigel, you finally made it." Then his eyes landed on me, and the smile froze on his face.

In the private room, Owen's friends surveyed me with expressions ranging from indifference to outright hostility. Owen and Chloe had been inseparable since medical school. From the moment Nigel and I became official, Owen had treated me with unconcealed disdain. In his eyes, I was just a trauma surgeon, leagues below Seattle’s youngest neurosurgery prodigy. I wasn't just unworthy; I was an anchor dragging Nigel down.

In the past, to save Nigel from embarrassment, I would force a smile and try to blend in. Not anymore. I now understood the problem was never me. In their world, only Chloe was good enough for Nigel.

So I dropped the pretense, walked directly to the most secluded corner, and sat down, opening my patient files.

"Dr. Barnes, this way, please." Owen gestured with a tight, insincere smile, leading me to an even more isolated table by the bar. He then turned and reverently escorted Nigel and a fashionably late Chloe to the central booth.

I knew he did it on purpose.

Chloe, draped in an elegant champagne-colored dress, lit up when Nigel sat beside her. They quickly fell into an intense discussion about a complex neurology case, their shoulders nearly touching, completely absorbed in their own world.

Watching them, so engrossed, I was suddenly thrown back to my medical school days, when he and I would debate cases just like that. Back then, every correct diagnosis I made would earn me a look of genuine pride from him. Now, that light in his eyes was reserved for someone else.

I stood up to leave, but Nigel's voice stopped me. "Jules, dinner isn't over."

"Dr. Ainsworth," I scoffed, "you and Dr. Sinclair seem to have it covered. I wouldn't want to intrude."

Owen's sarcastic voice cut through the noise behind me. "Dr. Barnes, antisocial as ever. No wonder Nigel—"

I stopped and turned, my voice dangerously calm. "Dr. Grant, my personal life is none of your concern. As a surgeon, I suggest you focus that energy on your patients."

With that, I strode out of the room, the sound of their whispers fading behind me. Let them talk. They had no idea what I had actually seen.

Back at my apartment, the refrigerator was bare. I was about to order a pizza when the doorbell rang. Through the peephole, I saw Nigel, holding a grocery bag from Pike Place Market. Before I could even protest, he was using his old key—the one he never returned—and letting himself in.

He strode into my open-plan kitchen like he still owned the place, pulling ingredients from the bag with an infuriating sense of familiarity.

"The key, Nigel," I said coolly.

He placed it on the dining table but made no move to leave. "Jules, about tonight—"

"Stop," I cut him off. "We're divorced. You don't owe me any explanations."

His eyes darkened. "Do you hate me that much?"

I laughed. "Hate? Nigel, you're not worth the energy. You're just a liar. You lied to me from the start."

He grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. "When did I ever lie to you?"

"You and Chloe—"

"She's my colleague."

"Is that all?" I yanked my hand away, my voice dripping with scorn. "You didn't look like 'just colleagues' in that conservatory. Just go, Nigel. I'm tired. You two are perfect for each other. I'm done. I wish you all the happiness in the world."