Death Of A Marriage, Birth Of Revenge

Aurora POV: The sterile scent of the Vance Private Clinic ER filled my lungs. Under the blinding surgical lights, Dr. Harris wore sterile gloves, using medical scissors to carefully cut the fused silk away from my chest. Every single snip of the blades pulled at the mangled, blistered tissue. I bit down on a rolled-up towel so hard my jaw ached, my cold sweat completely soaking the emergency bed beneath me. Dr. Harris examined the massive spread of the second-degree burns. He inhaled sharply through his teeth and muttered a curse to God under his breath. A nurse rushed over and quickly inserted an IV needle into the uninjured vein of my right arm, hooking me up to a strong pain pump. As the heavy painkillers flowed into my bloodstream, the rigid tension in my muscles finally began to give way to a numb limpness. The automatic doors of the ER chimed and slid open. Ethan walked in. He was impeccably dressed, his custom suit lacking even a single wrinkle, looking as if the chaotic nightmare at the restaurant had never occurred. As he stepped closer, the cloying, sweet stench of Ilene's perfume wafted off his clothes, mixing with the sharp smell of bleach. It was the nightmare scent that had haunted my marriage, a constant reminder of the third person who was always in the room with us. Ethan stopped beside my bed. He looked down at my bandaged chest from his towering height, his brows knitting together slightly. He didn't ask if I was in pain. He didn't ask how I was feeling. He turned his head directly to Dr. Harris and asked if the burns would leave ugly scars. His tone was entirely business-like and devoid of warmth. He sounded like a collector assessing the damage on a depreciating piece of art. I closed my eyes, forcing back the pathetic, lingering moisture burning at the corners of my eyes. Dr. Harris spoke in a strict, grim tone. He stated that without long-term skin graft surgeries, severe scarring was inevitable, making it clear just how catastrophic the damage was. Ethan tugs irritably at his silk tie. He looked visibly dissatisfied with the answer, clearly annoyed that this situation was adding complications to his life. He walked to the bedside table. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy set of keys, and dropped them into the metal surgical tray next to my pillow. They landed with a harsh, grating clang. In a voice that left no room for negotiation, Ethan announced that these were the keys to a high-security penthouse in Tribeca. He ordered me to move there directly after I was discharged. He told me not to return to the Long Island estate. I opened my eyes. I stared blankly at the glaring surgical lights above and asked in a hoarse, scraping voice, "Why?" Ethan answered matter-of-factly. He said Ilene was heavily traumatized by the night's events, and the quiet environment of the Long Island estate was better suited for her recovery. He added that seeing me would trigger her PTSD, so for everyone's sake, separating us physically was the best option. I turned my head and looked at the man I had loved for five years. Suddenly, he looked terrifyingly unfamiliar. I let out a dry sneer. "So the legal wife has to give up her marital home to accommodate a psychopath?" Ethan's face darkened instantly. He placed both hands firmly on the metal bed rails, leaning over me with the oppressive, suffocating aura of the underground tyrant he truly was. He was a man who demanded absolute control. He never tolerated anyone challenging his authority. He warned me to watch my words and not make this situation any uglier than it already was. I met his gaze without flinching. A cold, absolute fury ignited in my eyes. I reached over with my uninjured hand and grabbed the heavy set of keys from the metal tray. Ethan's posture relaxed slightly. A satisfied smirk began to form on his lips, assuming I had finally compromised. I raised my arm and hurled the heavy keys violently directly at his chest. The metal struck his expensive suit jacket and clattered onto the sterile floor with a sharp, echoing crash. I pointed a shaking finger toward the door, spitting out the words with every ounce of strength I had left. "Take your charity and get out!"