The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

The VIP wing of the hospital was oppressively quiet.

My leg was in a cast, elevated on a stack of pillows. My shoulder was stitched tight.

I had been out of surgery for six hours.

Blake hadn't come.

I stared at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand sweep away the remnants of my patience.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Finally, the door opened.

He looked haggard. Layers of soot stained his pleated tuxedo shirt, ruining the crisp white fabric.

He walked to the bed, running a trembling hand through his hair.

"You're awake," he said, his voice rough.

"Six hours," I replied, the words tasting like ash.

"I had to make sure Ariana was settled," he said, turning away to pour himself a glass of water. "The smoke inhalation was severe. Her throat is raw."

I laughed.

It was a dry, brittle sound, lacking any humor.

"My tibia was shattered, Blake. They had to put pins in it. I was crushed under a ceiling while you watched."

"I knew the guards had you," he said defensively, the glass clinking against the table. "Ariana was exposed. She couldn't walk."

"Neither could I!" I shouted.

He flinched.

"Lower your voice. This is a hospital."

"You used your body to shield her," I said, my voice trembling with a cold, focused rage. "You looked at the falling ceiling, and you chose to protect her."

"It was instinct," he said.

"Exactly," I whispered. "That's the problem."

"She's fragile, Caroline," he said, pacing the room like a caged animal. "You... you handle things. You're strong. If that chandelier hit her, it would have killed her. You survived."

"I survived because I'm lucky, not because you care."

"I was setting up a safe house for her," he admitted abruptly, stopping mid-stride. "Before the explosion. That's what we were talking about. She isn't safe at the hotel."

"So you're moving her?"

"I'm moving her to the Lake House," he said.

The Lake House.

Our retreat.

Where we spent our honeymoon.

"No," I said, the word leaving me like a gunshot.

"It's the only property with adequate security right now," he insisted.

"If you move her into our home," I said, staring him dead in the eyes, "don't bother coming back to the penthouse."

His phone rang.

The distinctive chime.

"She's scared," he said, checking the screen. "She's in the psych ward for observation. She needs me."

"I am your wife," I said. "I am lying here with broken bones."

"You have the best doctors money can buy," he said, backing toward the door. "I'll be back in the morning."

"If you walk out that door," I said, "you are walking out of this marriage."

He stopped.

He looked at me with pity.

"Stop being dramatic, Caroline. It's for the Family. We can't have a civilian casualty on the news."

He opened the door.

I watched through the gap as he walked down the hall.

He didn't turn left toward the exit.

He turned right, toward the psychiatric unit.

I saw him meet her in the hallway.

She was wrapped in a blanket, looking small and helpless.

He pulled her into a hug, rocking her back and forth, kissing the top of her head.

I wasn't his wife.

I was just the structure that held his life up.

She was the home he lived in.

I reached for my bag on the bedside table.

I pulled out the book.

My hand shook as I wrote.

Minus five points.

Left my bedside for hers.

Score: 5.