The scalding liquid hits my chest and face.

The pain is instant and blinding. I scream, falling backward off my chair. I hit the floor hard, my head cracking against the polished wood.

The world swims. Through a fog of pain, I see Ethan jump to his feet, his face a mask of horror.

"Aurora!"

He starts toward me, but Ilene is faster. She grabs his arm, her own face streaming with tears, her voice a hysterical shriek.

"She deserved it, Ethan! She was mocking me! Don't you see? It' s her fault I crashed my car! It' s her fault I can' t have babies! She ruined my life!"

Ethan freezes. He looks from my crumpled form on the floor to Ilene' s sobbing face. The old, familiar battle plays out in his eyes. Duty versus desire. Guilt versus love.

Ilene wraps her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. "Take me away from here, Ethan," she cries. "Please, take me home. I'm scared."

He looks at me one last time. I' m lying in a puddle of soup, my skin screaming, my vision going dark. I see his hesitation. I see the choice he is about to make.

He scoops Ilene into his arms and carries her out of the restaurant. He doesn't look back.

The last thing I feel before the darkness takes me completely is the cold, hard floor beneath my cheek.

I wake up to the smell of antiseptic and the beep of a machine.

A hospital. Again.

My chest and neck are bandaged. A dull, throbbing pain radiates from my skin.

A kind-faced nurse is checking my IV drip.

"Oh, you're awake," she says with a gentle smile. "You gave us quite a scare. You have some nasty second-degree burns, but you'll be okay. You were lucky."

I don't feel lucky.

"Your husband was so worried," she continues, fluffing my pillow. "He was here all night, pacing the halls. He just left to get some coffee. You have a good man."

The image of Ethan carrying Ilene away flashes in my mind. My heart clenches, a pain sharper than any burn.

He left me on the floor.

"We're divorced," I say, my voice a dry rasp.

The nurse looks surprised, but before she can say anything, the door to my room swings open.

It' s Ethan. He looks tired, his hair is a mess, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

"Rory," he says, relief flooding his face. He rushes to my bedside. "Don't say things like that. We're not divorced, not really."

He tries to take my hand, but I pull it away.

"Ilene… she didn't mean it," he starts, a familiar excuse on his lips. "She's just not well. She feels so guilty, she's been crying all night."

He apologizes. "I'm so sorry, Rory. I am so, so sorry."

I look at him, at this man I have loved for so long, and I feel nothing but a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion.

"She' s more important, isn't she?" I say, my voice flat. "The one you left me on the floor for."

"That's not it-"

"This whole thing," I interrupt, "this sick game of divorce and remarriage, of my pain to soothe her 'anxiety'… I'm done, Ethan."

My voice is quiet, but it' s stronger than it' s been in years.

"Go be with her. Go take care of her. She obviously needs you more."

He looks confused, as if he can' t comprehend my words. "Rory, are you still angry? I know I messed up. I know I should have stayed with you."

He grabs my hand, his grip tight. "She was threatening to kill herself, Rory! She had a knife! What was I supposed to do?"

He looks desperate, his voice pleading. "This is just for show. You know that. You will always be my wife. The only one."

He leans closer, his words a soft poison. "Just wait a little longer. Her doctor says she' s getting better. Once she' s fully recovered, we can have the life we always wanted. I promise."

"How long, Ethan?" I ask, the question hanging in the sterile air between us. "Another five years? Ten? Will you be placating her on her deathbed while I wait?"

He falls silent.

"It' s my fault," he finally whispers, the same words he has said a thousand times. "I owe her."

I' ve heard that phrase so many times. It used to make me feel sympathy. Now it just makes me feel tired.

I close my eyes. My chest feels heavy, like it' s filled with wet cement.

"Yes," I whisper back. "You do owe her."

I take a breath, preparing to say the words I should have said years ago. The words I decided on in the car.

But just as I open my mouth, his phone rings.

It' s a video call. Ilene' s tear-streaked face fills the screen. Her voice is shrill and accusatory.

"Ethan Bruce! You promised you would be right back! Why are you with her? I told you to stay away from her!"

She starts sobbing. "I'm not eating. I won't eat anything until you come back. If I starve to death, it' s your fault!"

Ethan's face sets in a familiar mask of frustration and resignation. He rubs his temples.

"Okay, Ilene. Calm down. I' m coming."

He gets up to leave. He leans down to kiss my forehead, but I turn my head away.

"Rory, get some rest," he says softly. "I'll be back later tonight to check on you."

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. Later tonight. After he' s tucked Ilene into bed and promised her the world.

I watch him hurry out the door, his phone still pressed to his ear, his voice a low, soothing murmur meant for another woman.

The door clicks shut, leaving me in silence.

I turn my head and stare at the empty doorway.

"I was going to say," I whisper to the empty room, "that you owe her everything. So you can have her."

"But I don't owe either of you a damn thing."

"From this moment on, Ethan Bruce, you and I are over. For good."

I spent a week in the hospital. The burns on my chest and neck slowly began to heal, leaving behind angry red scars.

Ethan came to visit, sometimes.

He would promise to be there for my check-ups, to help the nurse change my dressings.

But then his phone would ring. Ilene would be crying, or screaming, or threatening to jump. And Ethan would leave. Every single time.

After he left, my own phone would light up.

A text from Ilene.

[Ethan just made me his special chicken soup. He said it' s only for me.]

Then a picture of a steaming bowl of soup.

Another text.

[He stayed with me all night. He held my hand until I fell asleep.]

Followed by a video of Ethan sleeping in a chair by her bed, his hand clutching hers.

[He' s taking me on a date tonight to make up for what you did.]

[He carried me home because my feet hurt.]

And then, the one that finally broke through my numbness. A picture. Ilene, her face tilted up, pressing her lips against Ethan' s. His eyes were closed.

A video followed. Her hand sliding under his shirt.

My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, felt a sharp, crushing pressure. I couldn't breathe.

I didn't reply. I just deleted the messages, one by one.

On the day I was discharged, I handled the paperwork myself. I took a cab back to the house we once called home.

When I got there, Ilene was standing on the doorstep. Ethan was next to her, looking stressed. She had a suitcase.

"She has nowhere else to go," Ethan said before I could speak. "Her landlord kicked her out."

Ilene was trying to force her way inside. "This is Ethan's house, which means it' s my house! You can' t stop me!"

Ethan was holding her back, his voice firm for once. "Ilene, no. This is my and Aurora's home. You can't stay here."

She started to scream, a wild, cornered sound. "If you don't let me in, I'll run into traffic right now! I'll do it!"

He looked helpless, trapped.

Then he saw me standing by the gate. His eyes widened in surprise.

"Rory! You're home."

He rushed over, his voice a low, apologetic murmur. "She's just going to stay for a few days. Just until I find her a new place. I promise."

I looked past him at Ilene, who was now glaring at me with triumph.

I lowered my eyes. My voice was calm, devoid of any emotion.

"Okay."

Ethan looked shocked. "You… you don't mind?"

I shook my head, a bitter smile touching my lips. "What is there to mind?"

I wasn't the lady of this house anymore. I was just a temporary guest, soon to be evicted.

Ilene pushed past Ethan and marched into the house like she owned it.

"Ugh, this place is so tacky," she declared, wrinkling her nose. "Everything needs to be changed."

She started ordering the maids around. "This couch is hideous, get rid of it. And these curtains! Throw them out!"

Then her eyes landed on the large wedding portrait hanging in the living room. It was a picture of Ethan and me on our happiest day.

"And that," she said, pointing a sharp finger, "is the ugliest of all. Take it down and burn it."

The maids looked uncertainly at Ethan.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a slight, defeated nod. "Do as she says."

I had expected it. I had expected his surrender.

I felt a ghost of a laugh in my chest. I turned without a word and went to my bedroom to pack.

If they wanted me gone, I would make it easy for them. I would erase myself from this house.

I pulled out a suitcase and began to fill it with my things. Clothes, books, my old art supplies. Things I loved.

When I came out of my room, dragging the suitcase, the living room was a disaster zone.

Our wedding photo was smashed on the floor, the glass shattered, my smiling face torn. My books were pulled from the shelves and thrown in a pile. The beautiful vase I had bought on our honeymoon was in pieces.

The home I had so carefully built, so lovingly maintained, was destroyed.

I stood there for a moment, just looking at the wreckage.

Ilene stood in the middle of it all, a smug, victorious smile on her face.

"All of this," she said, gesturing around the room, "and you… you're all in the past now."

I ignored her. I was done with her games.

But she stepped in front of me, blocking my way. "Where do you think you're going?"

Her eyes fell on the half-open suitcase. She saw the dusty set of oil paints I had packed. Her expression twisted.

"Still pretending to be an artist? Are you trying to show off how talented you are? How much he used to love you?"

I just looked at her, my silence a wall she couldn't break. "Let me pass, Ilene."

I tried to move around her.

Her face contorted with rage. "You bitch!"

She grabbed a heavy porcelain vase from a side table and swung it at my head. I stumbled back, dodging the blow. The vase shattered against the wall behind me.

As I staggered, off balance, she lunged.

She put both hands on my chest and pushed. Hard.

I was standing at the top of the grand staircase.

"Go to hell, Aurora!" she screamed, her voice dripping with venom.

I felt a moment of weightlessness. Then a sharp, violent impact as my body tumbled down the stairs.

Pain exploded through me. I landed in a heap at the bottom, my head hitting the marble floor with a sickening crack.

Blood. I could feel warm blood matting my hair, pooling beneath me.

My body convulsed, a series of violent shudders.

My vision blurred.

The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Ethan, running through the front door, his face a perfect picture of horror.

When I woke up, the first thing I registered was the familiar scent of antiseptic. The second was a pounding headache that felt like someone was driving a nail into my skull.

A doctor was standing over me, shining a penlight into my eyes.

"Good, you're awake, Mrs. Bruce," he said, his tone relieved. "You gave us quite a scare. You have a serious concussion and a fractured wrist, but you're going to be okay. You're very lucky."

He smiled kindly. "Your husband is a real hero. He carried you in here himself. He hasn't left your side. He truly adores you."

I felt a cold chill spread through me, colder than any fear.

Adores me.

The word was a joke. A cruel, bitter joke.

I thought of all the times I had swallowed my pain, all the years I had endured Ilene' s madness, all for him. All for our marriage.

No more.

The rage that had been dormant for so long finally erupted.

I looked at the doctor, my voice clear and steady despite the pain.

"I want to report a crime. I was pushed."

I reached for my phone on the bedside table. "I'm calling the police."

The door flew open and Ethan rushed in, his face pale with panic.

"Rory, what are you doing?" he demanded, seeing the phone in my hand. He strode over and snatched it away from me.

"Ilene didn't mean to push you! It was an accident! She slipped!" he pleaded, his voice desperate. "Don't do this, Rory. Don't press charges."

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise.

"An accident?" I repeated, my voice shaking with fury. "Ethan, she tried to kill me."

I glared at him, my eyes burning. "There are security cameras in the house. They will show everything."

"Don't you care if I live or die?"

"Of course I care!" he insisted, his grip on my phone tightening. "But Ilene… you know her condition. A police investigation would be too much for her. It could push her over the edge."

He looked at me, his eyes begging for the understanding I no longer had to give. "Her life is already ruined because of us, Rory. We can't destroy what's left of it."

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

"Her life is ruined?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. "What about the accident, Ethan? Did you ever wonder why she was calling you so frantically on our wedding day? She wasn' t in any danger. She was trying to ruin our wedding."

"What did I do wrong?" My voice broke, the years of suppressed pain finally pouring out. "I loved you. That was my only crime. If you were so consumed with guilt, why did you marry me? Why did you drag me into this nightmare?"

I was screaming now, tears streaming down my face. "You always have an excuse for her! Always! Do I have to be dead for you to finally see me?"

The words ripped from my throat, raw and bloody.

Ethan just stood there, stunned. He had never seen me like this. The calm, compliant Aurora was gone.

His face crumpled. He looked lost. "Rory…"

He reached for me, his expression softening with a pain that mirrored my own. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around my shaking body. "I love you," he whispered into my hair. "I only love you."

For a moment, I almost believed him. I almost let myself sink into the familiar comfort of his embrace.

But it was too late.

I pulled away, my gaze steady and cold. "If you love me, let me get justice."

"All I want is for her to pay for what she did."

He stared at me, his jaw tight. He seemed to be wrestling with himself. He looked at my bandaged wrist, at the tears on my face, at the raw pain in my eyes.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering sigh, he handed my phone back to me.

He had made his choice.

Or so I thought.

The days passed. The police came. I gave my statement. They promised to investigate thoroughly.

A week later, I was ready to be discharged. The police called.

"Mrs. Bruce," the officer said, his voice professional yet apologetic. "We've concluded our investigation. Based on the evidence and Ms. Wolf's documented history of severe mental illness, we've determined that we cannot press charges."

"The evidence is insufficient to prove intent," he explained.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "But the security footage! It shows her pushing me!"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bruce. The security system at your residence malfunctioned. The footage from that day was erased."

My blood ran cold.

I hung up the phone, my mind reeling. I knew. I knew who was behind this.

I left the hospital and went straight to the house. I had to see for myself. I had to know for sure.

As I approached the front door, I heard voices from inside. Ilene's voice, bright and cheerful.

"Oh, Ethan, thank you! Thank you for getting rid of that horrible video! And for getting me that new doctor's note saying I was having a psychotic episode. You even used your connections to stop the police! I knew you still loved me!"

The world tilted on its axis.

He hadn't chosen me. He had chosen her. He had lied to my face, held me while I cried, and then gone behind my back to protect the woman who tried to murder me.

The betrayal was so absolute, so complete, it felt like a physical blow.