The Unwanted Bride Takes Back Her Crown

The limousine tires screeched to a halt outside the emergency room of Mount Sinai Hospital. Annabella pulled an oversized, beige trench coat tightly around her shoulders, trying to hide the massive volume of her wedding skirt. She pushed through the sliding glass doors.

The ER was a chaotic mess of screaming patients and rushing nurses. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. No one looked twice at the pale woman in the trench coat.

Annabella walked straight to the triage desk. She pressed her hands flat against the cold laminate counter to stop them from shaking. "Donie Valenzuela. What room?"

The triage nurse typed the name into the computer. Her eyes flicked up, then quickly darted away. "Uh, she's not down here. The patient was moved to the VIP ward on the top floor."

Annabella narrowed her eyes. Her stomach muscles tightened. "Did they pump her stomach? Is she in critical condition?"

The nurse shifted her weight, looking uncomfortable. She lowered her voice. "Ma'am, the patient ingested four over-the-counter melatonin gummies. She is in zero danger."

The words slapped Annabella across the face. The humiliation burned her cheeks. She let out a short, dry laugh, turned on her heel, and walked straight to the VIP elevator bank.

The elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor. The hallway was lined with thick, sound-absorbing carpet. The silence was absolute and suffocating.

Annabella slowed her pace. She approached Room 401. The blinds on the glass wall were half-open. She stopped in the shadows of the hallway, her view partially blocked, but she could see exactly what was happening inside.

Donie was propped up against a mountain of fluffy white pillows. Her cheeks were flushed and pink. There were no IV lines. There was no oxygen mask. She looked like she had just woken up from a nap.

Ethan sat on the edge of the mattress. He held both of Donie's hands trapped between his own. His shoulders were hunched forward, his posture dripping with a desperate, pathetic devotion.

Donie squeezed her eyes shut, forcing a single tear to roll down her cheek. She touched her collarbone with her free hand. "The mattress is so hard, Ethan. My back hurts."

Ethan jumped up instantly. He reached behind her, fluffing the pillows and adjusting her position with agonizing care, as if she were made of spun glass.

Acid rose in Annabella's throat. She remembered having a fever of 102 degrees last winter. Ethan hadn't even come home. He had his assistant send a bottle of Tylenol to the apartment via courier.

The physical nausea hit her so hard she had to bite the inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth, keeping her from throwing up on the carpet.

Donie leaned forward, resting her head against Ethan's chest. As she did, her eyes shifted. She looked straight past Ethan's shoulder, right through the gap in the blinds.

Donie's eyes locked onto Annabella's.

A slow, victorious smirk spread across Donie's lips. She buried her face deeper into Ethan's shirt, hiding her smile from him.

Ethan didn't notice a thing. He lowered his head and pressed a long, lingering kiss against Donie's forehead.

Annabella's hand hovered over the metal door handle. Ten minutes ago, she wanted to kick this door open and scream until her throat bled. Now, the urge was completely gone.

Looking at the two of them made her skin crawl. Pushing that door open meant breathing the same air as them, and the thought made her physically sick.

She pulled her hand back. She took a step away from the glass. The sharp heel of her shoe clicked loudly against the marble border of the hallway floor.

Inside the room, Ethan seemed to sense something，his head snapped up. He looked toward the door, his brow furrowing in irritation.

Annabella didn't hide. She stood perfectly still in the hallway, looking through the glass straight into his eyes. There was no anger left in her gaze. There was only a cold, empty void.

Ethan's breath hitched. His chest tightened. He instinctively tried to pull his hands away from Donie.

Donie immediately let out a sharp, pained whimper. She clutched his shirt, pulling his attention back to her face.

Ethan hesitated. He looked at Donie, then back at the window. He chose to stay on the bed. He glared at Annabella through the glass, his eyes flashing a clear warning: Do not make a scene.

Annabella stared at him. The corner of her mouth twitched into a sneer.

She turned around. She pulled the expensive trench coat off her shoulders and shoved it into the biohazard trash bin against the wall.

She walked into the open elevator. She watched the floor numbers tick down. Five years of her life, five years of excuses, died right there in that metal box.

The doors opened to the lobby. Annabella pulled her phone from her purse. She opened her contacts, found Ethan's name, and deleted him from her emergency contact list.