My Surgeon Husband's Ultimate Betrayal

Chloe Burns POV: Jermey didn't come home that night, or the night after. I didn't call. I didn't text. I didn't expect him to. A cold, quiet war had been declared, and for the first time, I wasn't the one waving a white flag. My mother's condition was stable, but the doctors at Sterling wanted her to stay for at least another week of observation. That meant I needed Jermey's signature on a final consent form for a specific post-op treatment plan. He had, despite my explicit instructions, remained listed as her medical proxy in some of the hospital's older systems. I tried calling him. The call went straight to voicemail. I tried texting. The message wouldn't deliver. He had blocked me. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. The sheer, childish audacity of it. He abandons his wife and mother-in-law, moves his mistress and her mother into our home, and then he blocks me. There was only one thing to do. I had to go find him. And I knew exactly where he would be. I got in my car and typed "Fronia Harrington" into the GPS. I expected her familiar address to pop up. Instead, a new, saved location appeared at the top of the list, marked with a heart icon. The label read: "The Nest." My stomach turned. It was so juvenile, so possessive. It was so quintessentially Karina. The address wasn't for Fronia's stuffy old condo. It was for a chic, modern townhouse in a newly developed, expensive part of the city. A place I knew they couldn't possibly afford. When I arrived, the place was eerily quiet. A "For Lease" sign was staked in the small front lawn. They were gone. But where? A moving van was parked down the street. On a hunch, I walked over to the driver, who was checking a clipboard. "Excuse me," I said, forcing a pleasant smile. "I'm looking for the people who just moved out of that townhouse. The Farmers? I think I left something behind." He barely looked up. "Don't know the name. All I know is the stuff is going to 128 Willow Creek Lane." My blood ran cold. 128 Willow Creek Lane. That was my address. Our address. The home I had designed, that my father had left me the money to build. I drove home in a blind rage, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white. When I turned onto my street, the sight that greeted me stole the air from my lungs. A moving van was parked in my driveway. And standing on my manicured front lawn, directing the movers with an air of casual authority, was Jermey. They were carrying in Fronia's ornate, old-fashioned furniture. A gaudy floral sofa. A ridiculously large, gilded mirror. He was moving them in. Into my home. I slammed the car into park and stormed towards him. "Jermey! What in God's name do you think you're doing?" He turned, his expression not of guilt, but of annoyance, as if I were a pesky neighbor complaining about the noise. "Chloe. I was going to call you. Fronia's lease was up, and with her health, I thought it was best they stay here for a while. Where I can keep an eye on her." "You thought?" I sputtered, incredulous. "You thought you could move your mistress and her mother into our marital home without so much as a conversation?" "She is not my mistress!" he snapped. "And this is my house too." "Actually, the deed is in my name," I shot back, my voice shaking with fury. "This house was built with my inheritance. You have no right." "I have every right! I am your husband!" One of the movers walked past, carrying a large, pastel-colored box. He was heading towards the second floor. Towards the room at the end of the hall. The room I had painted a soft, sunshine yellow. The room we had kept empty, waiting. For a future that would now never happen. "Where are they taking that?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. Jermey followed my gaze, his expression softening into one of patronizing reason. "That's just some of Karina's things. I thought she could use the spare room." "The spare room?" I repeated, a hollow ache spreading through my chest. "You mean the nursery? You're putting her things in our baby's room?" "It's not a nursery, Chloe, it's an empty room," he said dismissively. "Don't be so dramatic." "Did you ask me, Jermey? Did it ever once occur to you to ask me if it was okay to turn our home into a convalescent facility for your friends?" "They are not just friends! They are family!" a sharp voice cut in. Karina appeared from the front door, a smug, satisfied smile on her face. She glided to Jermey's side, linking her arm through his. "Jermey is our family now, Chloe. Maybe you should try to be a little more understanding." I looked at them, standing there together on my lawn, amidst the tacky furniture and the boxes filled with another woman's life. They looked so perfectly, disgustingly aligned. A united front against the unreasonable, hysterical wife. "Get out," I said, my voice trembling. Jermey sighed, pulling a hand through his hair. "Chloe, stop this. You're making a scene." "I said, get out." I took a step towards him, my eyes burning. "Get her, and her mother, and all of this junk out of my house. Now." He actually had the gall to look disappointed in me. "I expected more from you, Chloe. I thought you were better than this." That's when Karina chimed in, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Oh, Jermey, don't be hard on her. She's probably just upset about her mother. That's why she moved her to Sterling, isn't it? To get your attention?" Jermey's expression cleared, his brow smoothing out. He looked at me as if he'd just solved a complex puzzle. "Is that what this is? A cry for attention? God, Chloe, you're acting like a child." "I need you to sign this," I said, my voice dead. I pulled the crumpled consent form from my purse. The fight was over. The argument was pointless. He was a lost cause. He glanced at the paper and then back at me. "And if I don't?" "Then my mother's treatment is delayed. Is that what you want?" He looked at Karina, who gave him a small, encouraging nod. As if on cue, she whispered, "Jermey, maybe you should just go see her mom. It would mean the world to Chloe." He straightened up, his role as the magnanimous, forgiving husband restored. "Fine," he said, turning back to me. "I'll sign it. And I'll come to the hospital. But first, you are going to apologize to Karina. You have been incredibly rude to her and her mother." I stared at him. He was standing in my front yard, having moved his lover into my home, into the room I had dreamed of filling with a child, and he was demanding that I apologize. I looked at his self-righteous face, at the way he puffed out his chest to protect the woman beside him, and I felt nothing. The last embers of love, of hope, of any feeling at all, died out. "Fine," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Whatever you want." I turned and walked back to my car, not waiting for his signature. The forms didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except getting away. As I drove away, I saw him in the rearview mirror, his arm wrapped protectively around Karina's shoulders. He was the hero, defending the damsel in distress. And I was just the villain of the story he was telling himself.