On my daughter’s sixth birthday, just as I was about to cut the cake, an emergency call from my department head shattered the moment. I had to get back to the ER, immediately. He said the patient was the son of a Manhattan heiress, in shock from an acute asthma attack. He insisted I handle it personally, that there could be no mistakes. I pulled on my gloves, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. The Manhattan heiress… wasn't that my wife of eight years, Seraphina Croft? But we only had one child, an eight-year-old daughter. Where did a three-year-old son come from? After three hours of intensive work, the boy's breathing finally stabilized. Before I could even remove my mask, the doors to the trauma bay were violently kicked open. Several bodyguards stormed in and sent me sprawling to the floor with a single, brutal kick. A woman's voice, as cold as ice, cut through the air from above. "Why are there defibrillator burns on my son? Which hand did it? I want it broken." Clutching my dislocated arm, I looked up. Through the glass doors of the adjoining room, I met the venomous glare of Seraphina. And the man whose arm she was holding… was her ex-boyfriend, the one she had supposedly forced out of the country years ago. 1 Crack. The sharp sound of bone breaking echoed in the silent hallway, unnervingly loud. A tidal wave of pain crashed over me, threatening to pull my consciousness under. I collapsed onto the cold tile, my right arm twisted at a grotesque angle, hanging limp and useless at my side. That was my right hand. My scalpel hand. And now, it was ruined. Behind the glass door, Seraphina was gently holding onto Nathaniel. The raw anguish and concern on her face was an expression I hadn't seen in our eight years of marriage. Nathaniel’s eyes were red, his voice thick with self-blame. "Sera, Liam is so little… How could that doctor burn him with the defibrillator? If I had known, I would have stayed in there with him myself." Seraphina stroked his back, her voice a soft, soothing balm. "Don't be afraid. I'm here. I've already had that doctor's hand taken care of. Consider it an apology to Liam." I lay curled in the shadows, my mind replaying a desperate night eight years ago. Seraphina, her eyes bloodshot, had knelt before me, clutching my legs, begging for forgiveness. "Lucian, I swear! I will never have anything to do with him again!" "I'll force him out of the country immediately! He will never appear before you again as long as I live!" "If I ever see him again, may God strike me down where I stand!" She had even blocked and deleted all of Nathaniel’s contact information right in front of me and signed a prenuptial agreement stating she would leave with nothing if she was ever unfaithful. And I had believed her. I thought she had truly severed all ties to her past for me. Reality was a slap in the face. "Forced out of the country" was nothing but a performance for my benefit. And that little boy, Liam, had Seraphina’s eyes, her mouth. All this time, she had been playing the part of a devoted wife to me while secretly building a "perfect family" with her ex. The bodyguards’ fists and feet rained down on me for what felt like an hour. They were professionals, avoiding my face and focusing on areas that wouldn't show, especially my right hand, which they stomped on and ground into the floor repeatedly. By the time I dragged my bloodied body to its feet, leaning against the wall for support, the hallway was empty. Seraphina and Nathaniel had left with their precious son. Clearly, the surgical mask I wore had been the perfect disguise. She had no idea the doctor whose hand she’d just ordered destroyed was her legal husband of eight years. My department head burst in, his face purple with rage, jabbing a finger at me. "Lucian! Do you have any idea whose son that was?" "That was the Croft family scion! The heir!" "I specifically told you to be careful, and what do you do? You burn him with the defibrillator!" "How could you be so careless? Do you even want this job anymore?" "You're suspended! Go home and think about what you've done!" His spittle hit my face. How could I not know who it was? I had been with her for eight years. I knew what a frown on her face meant. No one knew Seraphina Croft better than I did. "Sir, the boy was in shock from an asthma attack. Defibrillation is standard procedure. The redness is minor and will fade in two days…" I tried to argue, to explain that Seraphina was overreacting. But the words died in my throat. What was the point? To the Manhattan heiress, my career was nothing more than a sacrificial offering to appease her ex-boyfriend. Besides, I had my daughter to think about. The image of Rosie waiting at home for me to come cut her birthday cake flashed in my mind. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my throat, gritting my teeth against the searing pain in my arm. My legs felt like they were filled with lead as I dragged myself out of the hospital. It was three in the morning when I got home. When I pushed open the door, the warm glow of the living room floor lamp was still on. Six-year-old Rosie was curled up on the sofa, the uneaten birthday cake clutched in her arms. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. "Daddy! You're finally home!" She leaped off the sofa and ran towards me. "Hiss—" She bumped into my right arm. The pain was so intense my vision went black, and I nearly collapsed. "Daddy, what's wrong? Why is your hand bleeding? Did someone hurt you?" Rosie's eyes filled with tears, her voice trembling. Her small hands hovered, afraid to touch me. I used my uninjured left hand to gently pat her back, forcing down the lump in my throat. "Daddy's okay. I just slipped and fell on my way home." "It's okay, Rosie, it doesn't hurt. It's late, you should go to sleep." I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace and managed to coax her into bed. After closing her bedroom door, I collapsed onto the edge of our bed in the master bedroom. My mind was a chaotic whirlwind of all the years of Seraphina's coldness. She was always "too busy with work," sometimes not coming home for months. She "didn't like how noisy children were," so she rarely held Rosie. But today, the way she held that other boy was so practiced, the look she gave Nathaniel so tender. I had been a fool, guarding this cold, empty house, clinging to a promise that was a lie from the start. I was the biggest joke of all. Despair consumed me like a black hole. I didn't close my eyes until the sky began to lighten with the dawn. I hadn't been asleep long when I heard the front door open. It was Seraphina. She stopped short when she saw me lying on the bed, my face pale, my right arm in a makeshift splint. Then she rushed over, her face a mask of concern. "Lucian? What happened? How did you get hurt so badly?" She reached out to touch my face, and I flinched away. Her hand froze in mid-air, and her brow furrowed. Her tone shifted instantly to one of anger. "Who did this? Tell me who hurt you." Watching her righteous fury, I felt a surge of bitter irony. The perpetrator was standing right in front of me, vowing to get revenge on my behalf. "Lucian, talk to me! Who was it?" she demanded, her voice rising as if she was ready to go to war for me. I lowered my gaze to hide the mockery in my eyes, my voice as cold as ice. "No one. I fell down the stairs last night. Hit the railing. It's broken." Seraphina let out a breath of relief, which was quickly followed by a mix of scolding and concern. "How could you be so careless? You're a surgeon; don't you know how to protect yourself? Does it hurt? Come on, I'm taking you to the hospital right now. We'll get the best specialist to look at it." The hospital? Which one? The one you just had me suspended from? "No need. It's been taken care of." I pushed her hand away and struggled to sit up, a wave of nausea washing over me. "Where's Rosie?" Seraphina paused for a second before answering gently. "I came home early this morning and saw you were asleep, so I didn't wake you. I already dropped her off at school." She paused again, her eyes fixed on my injuries. "Where were you last night? What happened? There's no way you got these injuries from a fall. Don't lie to me." She didn't believe me. I pulled at the corner of my mouth, my gaze locking with hers. "Yesterday was Rosie's sixth birthday." "Seraphina, where were you last night?" Her expression faltered for a fraction of a second. Her eyes darted away in a panic. "I…" She stammered, struggling to find her voice. "There was an emergency project at work. I was swamped. I couldn't get away." "I feel terrible about it. That's why I rushed back as soon as I could. I'll pick Rosie up from school later, and we'll have a proper birthday celebration for her, okay?" She moved to embrace me, her touch as delicate as if I were a piece of fine art. Just then, her phone vibrated violently in her pocket. The screen lit up with the caller ID: "Important Client." Seraphina's expression changed. She glanced at me, then quickly silenced the phone. "It's work, they're pushing for an answer. I have to take this." She walked out to the balcony. Though she lowered her voice, the gentle tone still drifted back to me. "Hello? Is Liam awake? Okay, I'll be right there." She hung up and turned back, her face once again a mask of deep affection and guilt. "Lucian, something urgent came up at the office. I have to go. You rest up. I promise I'll make it up to you when I'm done with this." Watching her lie so effortlessly, I couldn't help but let out a small, humorless laugh. In eight years of marriage, Seraphina had never lied to me about anything else. But the moment Nathaniel was involved, she transformed into an Oscar-winning actress. I didn't scream or demand answers. I simply leaned back against the sofa, my voice flat. "Go on. Business is business." Hearing my easy compliance, her tense shoulders visibly relaxed. "Lucian," she said, relief washing over her face, "I knew you'd understand. Thank you for being so patient with me." Her eyes filled with emotion as she leaned in to kiss me. As she got closer, the scent of a woody, aggressive cologne filled my senses. It was Nathaniel's favorite. The entire hospital corridor had reeked of it last night. A violent wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I shoved her away. Seraphina stared at me, a flicker of confusion and anger in her eyes. I lowered my gaze to hide my disgust. "Isn't your 'client' waiting?" I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You shouldn't keep them waiting." At the word "client," her expression became strained. She wrung her hands, her eyes darting around nervously. The guilt on her face was perfectly calibrated. "I'll go then. You get some rest. I'll make it up to you, I promise." She grabbed her keys and rushed out the door as if afraid I'd change my mind. The door slammed shut, and the apartment was plunged back into silence. I slumped onto the floor, the pain in my right arm radiating through my entire body. I bit down hard, using my good hand to pull a pen and paper from the coffee table drawer. I opened my laptop and created a new document. Divorce Agreement. I typed the words with a clean, final click. I didn't want a single cent of her money. What I had earned on my own was more than enough to support my daughter and me. All I wanted was full custody of Rosie. I hit the final enter key, printed two copies, and signed my name without a moment's hesitation. Then I opened a travel app and booked two one-way tickets to Florida for that afternoon. I couldn't stand another second in this suffocating city. I was taking my daughter, and we were going to disappear from Seraphina Croft's life forever. This time, we were the ones leaving her. Around noon, I gritted my teeth against the pain and pulled a suitcase from the back of the closet. I started throwing in some clothes and our important documents. I had just managed to stuff a few things inside when I heard the lock on the front door turn again. Seraphina, the workaholic who had once let me go to the hospital alone with a 104-degree fever because she was in a meeting, was back, carrying bags of groceries. On a weekday. In the middle of the day. She saw my stunned expression and explained softly as she took off her shoes. "Your hand is so badly injured, you can't do much. I couldn't bear the thought of you being here alone, so I took some time off to take care of you." If I hadn't heard her order my hand to be broken, if I didn't know about her secret family, I would have nominated her for a "Wife of the Year" award. She slipped off her expensive designer blazer, draped it over a chair, and rolled up the sleeves of her white silk blouse before heading into the kitchen. She washed vegetables, chopped meat, and simmered soup with the practiced ease of a full-time homemaker. A short while later, a steaming bowl of seafood chowder was placed in front of me. She sat down, blew on a spoonful, and carefully brought it to my lips. She had put on a record, and a soft French ballad filled the room. A box of expensive, beautifully packaged macarons sat on the coffee table. In the past, a gesture like this would have brought tears to my eyes, making me feel like we were back in the sweet, early days of our love. But now, all I felt was a bone-deep chill. The matcha-flavored macarons. That obscure, sentimental French song. They were all Nathaniel's favorites. She had just come from his side and hadn't even bothered to switch gears. She was just recycling the same routine she used on him, on me. A true master of time management. A cold dread crept up my spine. I turned my head away from the spoon. Just then, her eyes landed on the half-open suitcase. Her expression hardened instantly. "What are you packing for?" she demanded, her tone sharp with suspicion. "Where are you going?"
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