I No Longer Dream of Tender Nights

Cracks in the Glass

When Jeanne woke, the house was still empty. On her phone was a message from Darren. 'Baby, things are crazy at the hospital today. My day off has been canceled. Don't be mad, okay? No matter how busy I am tomorrow, I'll spend the whole day with you. I got you a surprise—wait for me.'

Below it, timestamped an hour earlier, was a photo from Alyssa—of her and Darren smiling by a hot spring pool, the kind of bright, blissful smile that stung to look at.

Jeanne's fingertips burned as she gripped her phone. For a second, she nearly called him to ask whether he was busy performing surgeries—or busy keeping his mistress company. But remembering her plan, she forced herself to breathe and typed a short reply. 'Okay.'

If he wasn't coming home, all the better—it gave her time to pack.

She boxed up the clothes Darren had bought for her, planning to donate them to charity. She fed the framed photos on the wall into the shredder, one after another. She carried the hundred wish cards she had written for him—tiny, colorful pieces of hope—to the balcony and burned them to ash. She didn't dare throw out too much, afraid Darren might notice something was off when he returned.

The next day, he finally came home. The moment he saw her, he dropped the cake in his hand and strode over with open arms. "I'm exhausted, Jeanne. Come here—need a recharge hug."

Jeanne instinctively stepped back, letting his arms fall empty. He quirked a brow, amused. "Still mad? Don't be. Come on, I'll show you your surprise."

Before she could answer, he had already taken her hand and pulled her toward the car.

They drove straight to the training track. Jeanne was confused when Darren tugged her out of the car and turned her toward what waited ahead.

"Do you like it?" he asked, pointing to it.

A sleek, modified race car gleamed before her—its body covered in sparkling pink diamonds that shimmered under the sun, dazzling to the eye. Jeanne blinked, momentarily stunned.

Around them, the club's coaches were watching, their voices filled with awe.

"I heard this custom job cost nearly a hundred million. That's devotion."

"Money's nothing—you don't know the half of it. Mr. Walsh stuck every one of those gems on by hand. Nearly ruined his eyesight over it."

"Come on, Jeanne, give it a spin! Let us have a turn after you. The boss really spoils you."

Their laughter and teasing filled the air. Jeanne's brief surprise slowly faded, her chest tightening. She forced a smile, though her eyes stung. Everyone called him a loving husband, but who among them knew which wife he really loved? His passion burned hot and bright—but it never shone for her alone.

Days of pent-up emotion finally found an outlet. Jeanne climbed into the driver's seat, slammed her foot down on the accelerator, and shot forward like an arrow loosed from its string. Lap after lap, she poured every ounce of pain, anger, and humiliation into the roar of the engine.

Darren stood at the track's edge, hands in his pockets, watching her with a soft smile. His gaze never left her. On the 40th lap, he raised his hands and made a heart. Caught off guard, Jeanne's grip slipped. The car jolted and scraped against the guardrail with a loud clang.

Pain shot through her foot before she even processed what had happened. Darren was already sprinting toward her, pulling the door open, and sweeping her into his arms.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, frowning as he carefully lifted her injured foot. Dabbing a cotton swab in antiseptic, he treated the scrape as gently as if she were made of glass. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have let you drive that long."

His movements were tender, his eyes full of worry so deep it almost looked real. But all Jeanne felt was a wave of coldness spreading through her. 'So love can be acted out this perfectly.'

She stared absently at him, almost reaching out to touch his hair. But Darren caught her hand and, lowering his head, leaned in to kiss her….

…

The lounge door flew open.

Without even looking up, Darren grabbed a water bottle off the table and hurled it toward the doorway. "Get out!"

Jeanne turned her head—and froze.

His expression changed the moment he saw who the intruder was. "Alyssa? Why are you here?"

Alyssa stood there, her hand clutching her reddened forehead, lips trembling, eyes downcast. Mud speckled her clothes; she looked pitifully disheveled. "I… I hit the brakes too late during practice," she murmured. "Came to grab the first-aid kit."

Darren's face flickered with irritation, then guilt. He said nothing at first. Instead, he peeled a bandage open and pressed it gently over Jeanne's toe.

"Stay put, don't move. Your foot's injured." He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and brushed a kiss against her cheek. "I'll check on her injuries. I'll be right outside. Call me if you need anything."

With that, he grabbed the first-aid kit and walked out.

The room fell silent—so silent Jeanne could hear the faint whistling of wind outside the window.

Minutes passed. She finally pushed the door open. The hallway was empty—so much for "right outside." The disappointment flickered briefly before she smothered it.

'Should've seen it coming, no?' she thought.

Leaning on the wall, she limped toward the race car. She truly did love that car—and with rain clouds gathering overhead, she wanted to drive it into the garage. But as she neared it, she froze.

The car was rocking ever so slightly, and faint, muffled voices slipped out through the gap in the half-closed window…