I stood frozen, the clipboard in my hand heavy as the truth it bore. Jessica Ramirez was not just any name; she was a chapter of our past that I thought was closed forever. She and Michael had history—a brief, intense relationship before we met. He had assured me it was over, dismissed as youthful folly. Yet here she was, entwined with our present in the most unimaginable way.
I managed to scrawl my signature, my hand barely obeying, and returned the clipboard to the nurse. The hallway seemed impossibly long, each step echoing with the thunderous beat of my heart. I braced myself as I approached the curtained partition shielding my husband and his unexpected companion.
As the curtain was drawn back, the antiseptic smell hit me harder, mingling with the sterile, cold air of reality. Michael lay there, his arm encased in a fresh white cast, his face pale and bruised. Despite everything, the sight of him alive and breathing was a balm to my raw nerves. Relief and betrayal clashed within me, leaving a bitter taste.
