Flames of Regret

I let out a hollow laugh as I heard Benedict's explanation.

"Benedict, spare me the nonsense. If things were really as you said, I might feel wronged, but I wouldn't be divorcing you over it.

"Do you think I don't know? When a firefighter is faced with a life-or-death choice, the protocol is to save the closest person first. I was clearly nearer to you. Celestine was lagging far behind because she ran slower. Yet, you didn't even look at me—you went straight to her.

"Ask yourself honestly—was there really no personal bias in your decision?"

Caught off guard, Benedict stiffened.

A long silence followed before he awkwardly reached for my hand. "Ophelia, I admit it—I just wanted to get her out first and come back for you right away. She's my friend. I couldn't just leave her to die, could I?"

I yanked my hand away and sneered. "Amazing. Leaving your wife, who was closer, and going out of your way to save a friend instead. Did she give you a fortune, or did she save your entire family, for you to be so devoted to her?

"And tell me. In the three days I've been hospitalized, have you come to see me even once? Or have you spent all your time comforting your traumatized sweetheart?"

Benedict opened his mouth, struggling for a retort, but no words came out.

Since we were already at this point, I figured I might as well tear the last shred of pretense apart. "If she were your wife, and I were just a friend, who would you have saved first?"

His whole body went rigid. His gaze flickered evasively.

I closed my eyes. "Let's get divorced."

I already knew the answer.

He still didn't nod. But he had nothing left to say. In the end, all he did was hastily throw out an "I don't agree to the divorce" before rushing out the door.

Look at that—he knew he was in the wrong and was too ashamed to even face me.

I put away the divorce papers and called my best friend, Anwen Sinclair, a lawyer.

I asked her to prepare the legal documents for filing a divorce suit and to find me a place to live after I was discharged.

If Benedict refused to settle this amicably, then we would do it through the courts. I wasn't going to endure this for another day.

After I was hospitalized, waves of people came to visit me—old classmates, friends, and coworkers. But never in a million years did I expect Celestine to show up.

Gone was her smug smirk from that night. Now, she was crying like a delicate flower in the rain.

"I'm so sorry, Ophelia. I didn't know Benedit would save me first. I had already passed out from the smoke. If I had been conscious, I never would've allowed him to do that.

"Please don't be mad at Benedict. If you want to take it out on someone, take it out on me."

Saying this, she grasped my wrist and weakly slapped her own face a few times.

I watched her little performance with cold indifference.

She knew full well that my hand was burned, still wrapped in bandages, and too weak to exert any force.

How convenient—she used that to stage this pathetic act.

I must have been blind before. How had I never noticed she was the ultimate manipulative schemer?

The stench of pretense was so thick that I was suffocating.

Just like a cheap soap opera, in the next second—right on cue—Benedict burst into the hospital room. He violently swatted my hand away and pulled Celestine into his arms, his face filled with distress.