Boyfriend Cheated with Cheer Captain, I Left

The paramedics arrived and wheeled me into the exam room.

The doctor examined my right ankle, pressing his cool fingers against different points. Every touch sent a jolt of sharp pain through me.

"Does this hurt?"

"How about here?"

"Can you feel me moving your toes?"

I clenched my jaw, nodding, shaking my head, squeezing out broken answers.

The examination lasted about ten minutes. The doctor straightened up, pulled off his gloves, and his brow furrowed.

"Old injury. Post-fibula excision. The joint stability was already compromised." His voice was heavy. "Now, with this kind of blunt force trauma, the situation is very serious."

"You need surgery immediately. The longer we wait, the less likely it is that full joint function can be restored."

He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear.

If I didn't get the surgery, I could lose this foot.

My nails bit crescents into my palms.

Evan knew exactly where I was most vulnerable. And he'd hit the mark dead-on.

The nurse brought a wheelchair, helped me into it, and took me to the payment counter.

I pulled my wallet from my coat pocket and handed over the bank card.

This card was linked to the joint account Evan and I had opened together.

He'd said we would keep all our money here and plan our future together. It was my only safety net.

The clerk took the card, swiped it, paused, and tried again.

"Ma'am, this card has insufficient funds."

I gripped the armrest. "That's impossible. Check again."

He gave me a look, ran it one more time, then tilted the screen toward me.

"See for yourself. Balance: zero dollars. A single transfer cleaned it out. This afternoon."

The blood drained from my body.

"Ma'am? Are you going ahead with the payment or not? There are people waiting." The clerk's voice was impatient.

I took the card back with stiff fingers. That thin piece of plastic felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"I need to make a call."

I wheeled myself to a corner of the stairwell and hit dial.

"What do you want now?"

Evan's voice came through, dripping with irritation.

"Evan." I drew a breath, fighting to keep my voice steady. "The money. Our account is empty. I need it for surgery. My foot—"

Two seconds of silence.

Then a quiet laugh.

"Money, huh?" His voice was slow, almost playful. "Sure. Apologize to Sophia."

"Apologize for that little tantrum of yours. Make it sincere. When I'm satisfied, I'll think about transferring the surgery money."

My ears rang.

"What?"

"Apologize." He repeated it, a thread of impatience creeping in. "Lillian, you acted like a lunatic tonight. You need to take responsibility for what you did. Otherwise—"

He didn't finish, but I understood.

Sophia was the one who'd been wronged. So even with my foot about to give out for good, I was the one who needed to say sorry.

I squeezed my eyes shut and was about to open my mouth when Sophia's voice cut through from the background.

"Evan, what do I do? The doctor says my face is going to scar!"

"How am I supposed to go on camera? What will my followers think? I can't live like this."

The other end erupted into chaos. Evan seemed to pull her into his arms, murmuring frantic reassurances.

Then he was back on the phone, shouting.

"Lillian, look what you've done. Sophia's threatening to jump off the roof."

"It's too late. You've already ruined everything."

"Until you learn to control yourself like a normal person and understand what consequences mean, don't expect a single cent from me."

He hung up. The line went dead.

I stayed frozen, phone still pressed to my ear.

My right foot tore itself apart.

I toppled sideways, wheelchair and all, and hit the floor. Consciousness pulled away like a tide, dragging me under.

I didn't know how long I was out. The smell of disinfectant seeped into my nose.

I pried my eyes open. The doctor stood at my bedside writing something. When he saw I was awake, his expression softened with something like pity, and he handed me a diagnosis sheet.

"Permanent functional impairment of the right ankle joint."

The foot was done.

I glanced at the paper. There was no breakdown, no tears, just a flat, ashen calm.

Fine. That fibula had been his to begin with. At least the story had a proper ending now.

I gathered my things quietly, spent my last bit of cash on the cheapest secondhand wheelchair I could find.

Then I pulled out the cream-colored envelope I'd forgotten about.

Valley Creek Private Hospital. The gold-embossed crest caught the dim light.

Report date: the fifteenth of next month. Just enough time.

I tucked the letter away carefully, gripped the wheel rims, and pushed forward.

But I'd barely moved a few feet when a tall figure blocked my path.

Evan stood there, frowning down at me. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes.

"Lillian, you said you needed surgery. That was real?"

"Where are you going?"