His Depression Got Me Dumped

Mara ignored me completely.

She probably thought I'd do what I always did—lower my head, make peace, and hand over the painting while begging her to take it.

Instead, I moved my things out and checked into a hotel.

I booked two tickets to Francia.

As soon as the divorce was finalized, I'd take my mom and leave.

Then the hospital called.

The second I got there, my fantasy fell apart.

My mom was curled up in a corner wearing a thin hospital gown, shivering. Two tall bodyguards stood nearby, watching her without a trace of sympathy.

I rushed over, took off my coat, draped it over her shoulders, and helped her up.

When she saw me, tears flashed in her eyes. Still, she forced a smile.

"I'm fine. Don't worry."

Her lips were pale and bloodless.

Rage surged through me.

I turned to the bodyguards.

"Who told you to treat my mother like this? Was it—"

The name caught in my throat when I saw how weak she looked.

One of them spoke flatly.

"Since you're here, take her away. If you can't afford treatment, don't come to the hospital. She can wait to die. That's HER order."

My heart dropped.

Grinding my teeth, I helped my mom downstairs and went to find her attending physician.

They told me he was away for training.

I asked for another bed, even if it was only for one day.

The staff exchanged awkward looks before shaking their heads.

"Mr. Weinberg, we're sorry. We're fully booked."

I knew it was a lie.

But there was nothing I could do.

I took my mom back to the hotel, then spent the rest of the day running from hospital to hospital across the city.

Every answer was the same.

No beds available.

I called Mara.

She picked up almost immediately.

"What is it?"

I nearly broke down. "Mara, you know my mom is sick. How can you do this? You'll kill her. She treated you like family. How can you be this cruel? Is this because of the painting? I'll give it to you. I'm begging you. Take it out on me. My mom didn't do anything."

Silence.

After a long pause, her cold voice came through.

"I told you. If you pull something and hurt Asher, I'll stop paying your mother's medical bills. You went online, spread nonsense, and got everyone calling him a side piece. He's very upset. Consider this a lesson."

I froze.

"...Wasn't this because I wouldn't give you the painting? I didn't—"

The call ended.

I immediately opened social media.

A bright red headline sat at the top of the trending list.

The post named Asher directly and accused him of being a side piece.

The video had been recorded from a distance. Most of the audio was unclear.

Except for one sentence.

My sentence.

"...Asher's just the other guy in someone else's marriage!"

I sank beside the flower bed outside the hotel.

The winter wind cut through me like a blade.

My hands and feet had gone numb.

But I didn't dare go inside.

I didn't dare face my mom.

She was suffering because of me.

I kept calling Mara.

She never answered.

Just when despair was about to swallow me whole, she finally picked up.

In the silence, I asked urgently, "What do you want me to do?"

A soft laugh came through the phone.

"Go crazy. Post our marriage certificate. Tell everyone we're husband and wife. Call Asher the side piece."

I went completely still.

"What?"