My first surgery back in the country was on a girl with a perineal laceration. She signed her consent form with one hand and complained into her phone with the other. “It’s just a minor surgery. Was it really worth dropping a hundred-million-dollar deal to fly back?” “And stop buying me bags and jewelry — my closet is overflowing.” She pushed the form across the desk. My eyes drifted to the emergency contact field. Ethan. I smiled and said: what a coincidence — my boyfriend’s name is Ethan too. The girl grabbed my hand, eyes bright and dancing. “Doctor, are all guys named Ethan such hopeless romantics?” “I’m pretty sure this condition is basically his fault — he’s all over me every day, seven times in one night.” She laughed and shook her head. “And somehow he still found out about the surgery and flew straight back from overseas.” I opened my mouth to say: my Ethan isn’t like that. My Ethan was sharp, driven, serious about his career. The kind of man I always felt I had to earn. Then she shoved her phone in my face to show me her clingy, lovesick boyfriend. My heart dropped into my stomach. The man on that screen — smiling so warmly, so full of affection, completely at ease… …was Ethan. The same Ethan I had been dating for three years. ...... My Ethan didn’t cling. Didn’t obsess. In that department, he was always restrained — distant, almost indifferent. The girl — Chloe — kept talking. Every complaint she made dripped with happiness. “Oh, right — Doctor, the form’s already signed. Is there anything else I need to bring?” I held my professional smile in place. “We’ll need your pre-op allergy history on file before we can confirm a surgery date.” She smacked her forehead. “I left that at home from my pre-marriage medical check. Looks like we’ll have to push it back again.” I looked up slowly, fighting the sting behind my eyes. “You’re married? You’re only twenty.” She beamed at me like a child showing off a prize. “Yep! We signed the marriage license last November 20th — my birthday, actually.” “You don’t know how scared he was of losing me. I hadn’t even graduated yet and he was already dragging me to City Hall, like he was afraid I’d run.” She laughed. “He even bought an apartment next to my campus just to stay close. So clingy.” She shook her wrist dramatically, feigning annoyance. Under the desk, my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. November 20th. The day my mother died. I remember every second of it. I called Ethan over and over that day. I wanted to tell him how broken I was. I just needed him to come — a hug, anything at all. What I got was one cold text: “Elena, I’m so sorry. The company is in chaos right now — I can’t get away. Don’t worry, once things settle down I’ll make time to pay my respects.” He wasn’t caught up with the company. He was at City Hall, signing a marriage license with another woman. “Doctor? Doctor?” Chloe’s voice pulled me back. She stood up, a little sheepish, smiling at me. “Should I go home and grab the file?” I was on my feet before I’d made any conscious decision. “I’ll come with you.” She blinked, confused. “Isn’t that too much trouble?” “Not at all. The sooner we operate, the better for your recovery.” We walked downstairs together and got into her car. A custom-fitted Mercedes, the interior immaculate — every detail chosen with obvious care. Even the small things had been thought through. Someone had loved doing this. On the drive over, she told me story after story about her life with Ethan. Island getaways. Trendy restaurants. The nerves and excitement of their first time together. Her smile was so sweet. It was blinding. I stared out the window as fragments of every promise Ethan had ever made me cycled through my head on repeat. The car stopped in front of a gated villa estate. The most prestigious development in the city. The same place Ethan and I had once agreed to buy our future home. We had made that promise together. I never imagined someone else would move in first. Chloe pushed the front door open — and I went still. Every wall, every fixture, every deliberate detail — it was identical to what Ethan and I had mapped out together, late at night, dreaming out loud. I swallowed the bitterness and asked: “Did you design this yourself? It’s beautiful.” Chloe smiled and handed me a glass of water. “No — Ethan did all of it. Surprisingly, it matched my style perfectly.” She pointed toward the bathroom. “He even put a little shelf next to the toilet for my phone — practically custom-made for me.” I stood completely still. My nails pressed into my palm. That shelf was my idea. I’d told him once that I loved having my phone within reach while I soaked in the bath. One winter, the two of us were living in a basement apartment, eating day-old bread. We lay there scrolling through our phones, talking about every small thing we wanted in our future home. I thought that promise was ours. Turns out I was just laying the groundwork for someone else’s life.
Chloe gave me the full tour. I walked through the vision I had built — room by room, for someone else entirely — and every corner felt like a bruise. We reached the second floor. A door flew open and a white poodle came bounding out. “My baby!” Chloe scooped it up. “You always lose your mind when Mommy comes home, don’t you?” Then the dog twisted out of her arms and launched itself straight at me, tail going wild, front paws scrabbling at my legs. I went rigid. It was only then, up close, that I finally saw him clearly. Chloe laughed. “Wow — he seems to really like you. It’s almost like he already knows you?” My throat tightened. “What’s his name?” “Biscuit. He’s five.” She scratched behind his ears, offhand. “I’ve only had him two years, though. Ethan adopted him from a relative — he said he was worried I’d get lonely at home, so he wanted to find me a gentle dog for company.” I laughed. A hollow, quiet sound. Of course he knows me. Biscuit was the last gift my grandmother left me before she died. I raised him for three years. One day he simply vanished. I thought I’d lost him. I cried for days. And Ethan held me. “Stop crying, Elena. I’ll always be here.” Biscuit hadn’t gone missing at all. Ethan had taken him and given him to Chloe. “Look at me, going on and on — I almost forgot why we came.” Chloe pushed open the bedroom door and started hunting for the file. I lingered in the doorway. My attention caught on something stuck to the wall — a handwritten chore chart. Ethan’s handwriting. Neat, precise, unmistakable. Monday through Sunday, every day filled in — laundry, sweeping, tidying up. “What’s this?” My voice came out unsteady. Chloe glanced up, her expression completely casual. “His weekly task list. I have a thing about cleanliness, but I didn’t want to hire a housekeeper — so he handles all of it.” She rested her chin in her hand, fond and a little amused. “Honestly, he’s pretty thorough about it.” I stood there feeling cold from head to toe. When we lived together, we had a housekeeper. But I felt guilty — he worked so hard — so I quietly took over the housework myself. Back then, I was willing to do anything for him. I did it gladly. Every bit of it felt like a joke now. “Found it!” Chloe’s voice snapped me back. “Take a look — does everything seem okay?” I flipped through it mechanically. Every signature line on every page. Ethan. His handwriting — I know it better than my own name. I held the pain down and kept my voice steady. “Everything looks fine. I’ll be in touch about the surgery date.” I turned to go. Chloe caught my arm. “Don’t rush! It’s about to rain, and it’s almost dinnertime.” She grinned. “Stay and eat with us — I’ll have Ethan cook. He’s incredible in the kitchen.” He cooks? In all our years together, I didn’t know he could do that. Before I could say no, she’d already pulled me onto the sofa and was dialing. “Ethan, where are you? I missed you — get home and make dinner.” His voice came through the speaker — familiar, and yet almost unrecognizable. It wasn’t the clipped, guarded tone I knew. This was warm, easy, indulgent. “Sweetheart, I showed up at the hospital with 999 roses to pick you up and you were already gone. You didn’t even tell me. I was worried about you.” 999 roses. In five years together, the most he ever sent me was eleven roses. On my birthday. Ordered by his secretary — after I reminded him. Chloe clicked her tongue. “I’m sorry! I’ll give you a full report next time. Come home — we have a guest. Time to show off, Chef Ethan.” A bright, easy laugh came through the phone. “Yes, ma’am! On my way. Don’t start without me.” I sat on the sofa, completely numb. My nails pressed into my palm until I couldn’t feel it anymore. 999 roses, rushing to the hospital, calling her sweetheart — that open, easy laugh was nothing like the man I thought I knew. None of it had ever been mine. I couldn’t even picture him in an apron. That man with the perfectly pressed suit and the carefully controlled expression, standing in a kitchen and laughing like that. It simply didn’t add up.
Watch? https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260619H5EBdXbhrW ? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "Novelix" app ? search for "ni240369", and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix