Chapter 3
I woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the hum of machines. The ceiling above me was too white, too bright. My body ached, my side throbbed, and every breath stung.
“Layla!” Myra’s voice cracked as she leaned over me, her eyes wide and teary. “Oh my god, you’re awake–thank god. We thought we lost you.”
Tasha stood behind her, clutching a cup of hospital coffee. She looked pale. “You lost a lot of blood. The knife cut deep… but no major organs were hit. The doctors stitched you up in time.“”
My head was heavy, but my mind was clear. I blinked slowly. “Where’s Brent?”
Their silence was loud. Myra looked down. Tasha shifted uncomfortably.
“Where is he?” I repeated, a little stronger this time.
Myra finally spoke. “He didn’t come.“}
I stared at her. “What?”
“He… went with Celeste,” Tasha said, voice flat. “Right after you passed out. Paramedics came, took you. He stayed behind–with her.”
“Stayed?” I croaked.
“He took her home,” Myra added, anger slipping into her voice. “And we thought maybe he just needed to process or something, but then… this.”
She pulled out her phone and turned the screen to me.§
It was a photo. Brent and Celeste, sitting at an outdoor restaurant. She was laughing. He was feeding her something from his plate, his hand on hers. There was a shopping bag beside her chair. Designer.“]
“They reconciled,” fasha said bitterly. “Brent spoiled her like nothing happened. We saw them ourselves.”
The photo blurred as my eyes welled up. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, grounding myself. I stared at the picture again. Celeste was smiling like she hadn’t stabbed me just hours ago. Brent looked… content.
I knew what I needed to do.
“Pass me my phone,” I said.”
Myra hesitated. “Layla–“>
“Please.”
She handed it over.
I called the police.[
I gave them my full name, the hospital address, and filed an assault case. I told them what happened–that Celeste Westwood stabbed me with a kitchen knife at the bar. That it was unprovoked. That I had witnesses. That I had nearly died.
By the time I ended the call, my hand was shaking. But my voice was steady.“]
Later that night, the hospital room was quiet again. Myra and Tasha had gone home to rest. Nurses came and went. I stared at the IV drip, the slow tick of saline, and the dull beep of the heart monitor.
The door creaked open.
Brent.
He stepped inside with his usual perfect posture, his face unreadable.
For one moment, one pathetic heartbeat, I hoped he’d say he was sorry. That he’d ask if I was okay. That something had changed.“]
He didn’t.”
Instead, his jaw was tight, his voice low and controlled.
“You filed a case against Celeste?”
I blinked at him. “She stabbed me.”
“She didn’t mean it,” he said sharply. “She was drunk. She wasn’t in the right mind. You know how she is–she has a temper.”
“She stabbed me, Brent.”
He looked at me like I was the problem. “You’re alive. You weren’t critically hurt. It could’ve been worse.“>
I laughed, a bitter, hoarse sound. “That’s your response? I could’ve died.“>
“She didn’t want to kill you,” he snapped. “She was upset.”
My body stiffened. “I am your wife.“}
He exhaled slowly. “Even if you file a case, it won’t go anywhere. You know who our family is. I already grounded her. Took her cards. She won’t be going out for a while.“}
“A credit card is not a punishment for attempted murder,” I spat.
Brent ran a hand through his hair. “Layla, don’t make this harder than it is. You need to rest. Heal.“}
I tried to speak again, but he cut me off.
“I’m going abroad,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ll be gone for a few days. When I get back, I’ll bring you something. A gift. You’ll feel better.”
2/2 125%
Then he turned and walked out.
Just like that.
He never asked how I felt. Never said sorry. Never cared.
I lay in that cold hospital bed, tears slipping silently down my cheeks. There was no warmth left. No hope.”
Only the sharp, painful clarity that Brent Westwood never loved me–and never would.
