I Lost My Genius Surgeon Wife

Herta marched into the bedroom, her heavy orthopedic shoes sinking into the plush carpet. She did not stop at the foot of the bed. She walked right up to the side, reached out with her large, rough hands, and violently ripped the heavy down comforter off Justine's body. The sudden exposure to the air conditioning hit Justine's fever-slicked skin like a physical blow. She gasped, her body instinctively curling inward to protect itself from the cold. But the vulnerability only lasted a second. A surge of pure, unadulterated anger burned through the fog of her fever. Justine swung her arm out. The back of her hand connected hard with Herta's wrist. Smack. The sharp, cracking sound of skin hitting skin echoed loudly in the large bedroom. Herta's arm froze mid-air, her eyes widening in absolute shock. She stared at the red mark on her wrist, completely unable to process that this silent, accommodating woman had dared to strike her. "Do not attempt to defy the Madam's orders, Mrs. McConnell," Herta hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Or you will suffer the consequences." Justine forced her aching, heavy body to sit up straight against the headboard. Her chest heaved as she struggled to draw air into her burning lungs. She locked her eyes onto Herta's face. "Get out of my room," Justine said. Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and broken, but the absolute venom in her tone made the two maids by the door flinch. Before Herta could retaliate, the heavy, rhythmic sound of expensive leather shoes hitting the hardwood floor echoed from the hallway. Carl appeared in the doorway. He had changed his ruined tie and looked immaculate again. He waved his hand dismissively. Herta and the maids immediately backed away, lowering their heads in submission. Carl stepped into the room. He looked at Justine sitting on the bed. Her cheeks were flushed a dark, unnatural red from the fever, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly. For a fraction of a second, his eyes darted away, unable to meet her gaze. The guilt of knowing he had let her drown in the pond flickered in his chest, but his massive ego quickly crushed it. He cleared his throat, adopting the smooth, patronizing tone he used during press conferences. "Listen to me, Justine," Carl said, acting as if he were granting her a massive favor. "If you just come downstairs right now and apologize to Leo for scaring him, we can put this entire ugly incident behind us." Justine stared at his perfectly styled hair and his perfectly straight teeth. A wave of intense nausea rolled through her stomach, so strong she thought she might actually vomit. She let out a dry, hacking laugh. "You want the victim to apologize to the attacker?" Carl's face instantly darkened. The patronizing mask slipped, revealing the controlling tyrant underneath. He felt he had generously offered her a way out, and she was throwing it in his face. He reached up and yanked at his collar, a physical manifestation of his rising temper. "Watch your tone with me," he warned, his voice dropping low. When Justine merely stared at him with those dead, empty eyes, Carl decided to pull out his ultimate weapon. He needed her to submit, to remember her place as his accessory. "Get dressed," Carl commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Put on the navy blue Oscar de la Renta dress. We have guests arriving from the Astor-Paine family in one hour. You will come downstairs and act like a proper hostess." Carl paused. He watched Justine's face closely, waiting for the reaction he knew was coming. "Anabella Sullivan is accompanying them," he added casually. "I expect you to make her feel welcome." The name hit Justine's chest like a physical punch. Anabella Sullivan. The daughter of a wealthy political donor, Carl's childhood sweetheart, and the woman who had spent the last three years haunting Justine's marriage like a toxic ghost. Justine's mind flashed back through three years of micro-aggressions. Anabella showing up unannounced to "help" Carl with his campaigns. Anabella casually adjusting Carl's tie at a gala while Justine stood right next to them. And Carl-Carl never pushed her away. He always smiled that indulgent, soft smile at Anabella, a smile he never gave his own wife. In the past, the mention of Anabella would make Justine swallow her pride. She would force herself into a corset and a smile, terrified of looking like the jealous, insecure wife. But today, sitting in this bed with a 102-degree fever caused by his son, the thought of entertaining his mistress felt utterly absurd. Justine lifted her chin. She looked directly into Carl's eyes. "I'm not going," she said. The two words were spoken with absolute, terrifying calm. Carl blinked. He actually thought he had misheard her. "Excuse me?" "I have a fever," Justine stated, her voice flat. "I am not going downstairs to serve tea to your old lover." Carl's eyes widened in disbelief, and then his face twisted into a mask of pure rage. He interpreted her refusal entirely through the lens of his own narcissism. He thought she was throwing a jealous fit to get his attention. "Are you insane?" Carl shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "You are going to sabotage a critical political connection because you are petty and jealous?" He crossed the room in three massive strides. He slammed both of his hands down onto the mattress on either side of Justine's legs. His large frame cast a dark, suffocating shadow over her. "Do not test my limits, Justine," he hissed through clenched teeth, his breath hot against her face. Justine did not shrink back. She leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them. "Your limit?" Justine whispered, her voice dripping with pure disgust. "Your limit is forcing your sick wife to entertain the woman you're sleeping with?" The accusation hit the absolute core of Carl's hypocrisy. It was the unspoken truth of their marriage, dragged out into the harsh light. Carl's face turned a violent shade of purple. He pushed himself off the bed so fast he nearly stumbled. He pointed a shaking finger at her face. "You are completely irrational!" Carl roared. He spun around and marched toward the door. He yanked it open and glared at Herta, who was waiting in the hall. "If my wife thinks her head is too hot," Carl barked, his voice loud enough for the entire staff to hear, "then take her down to the wine cellar. Lock her in there for two hours. Let her cool off until she remembers how to be a McConnell." Justine's pupils contracted to tiny pinpricks. The wine cellar. It was kept at a constant, freezing temperature to preserve the vintage wines. For someone burning with a high fever, being locked in a refrigerated room was not just a punishment; it was physical torture. A cruel, victorious smirk spread across Herta's face. She immediately snapped her fingers. The two strong maids stepped forward, grabbed Justine by her upper arms, and violently hauled her out of the bed. Justine's legs gave out. The fever had drained every ounce of strength from her muscles. She couldn't fight them. She let her body go limp as they dragged her across the carpet. As they pulled her past Carl, Justine turned her head. She looked at him. She did not cry. She did not beg for mercy. She looked at him with a gaze of such profound, absolute contempt that it made Carl physically flinch. The contempt stung Carl worse than a slap. He quickly looked away, staring at the wall, trying to suppress the sudden, sickening feeling of guilt rising in his throat. Justine was dragged down the hallway. The maids pulled her toward the heavy, iron-wrought door that led to the basement stairs. The cold, damp air from the cellar drifted up from the darkness below, smelling of old wood and earth, waiting to swallow her whole.