I stared at Olivia’s message until the screen went black.

“What you asked me for your wife is ready.”

There were at least twenty innocent explanations for that sentence.

Unfortunately, my brain chose none of them.

Julian shifted beside me.

—Why are you so quiet?

—My leg hurts.

His hand immediately stopped moving through my hair.

—How badly?

—Enough.

He sat up.

The bedside lamp remained off.

Of course.

—Let me see.

I laughed once.

—Absolutely not.

—Clara, I treated it this afternoon.

—Under hospital lighting. Different jurisdiction.

There was a pause.

Then, to my irritation, he laughed again.

—You’re angry.

—Excellent diagnostic skills, Doctor.

—Because I turned off the light?

—Among other things.

He was silent.

I waited.

He didn’t ask what the other things were.

That irritated me even more.

I rolled away from him and closed my eyes.

—Go to sleep.

For several minutes, neither of us moved.

Then Julian said quietly:

—Olivia isn’t what you’re thinking.

My eyes opened.

So he had seen the message.

Or worse.

He already knew exactly what I was thinking.

—I wasn’t thinking about Olivia.

—You’re a terrible liar.

—And you’re apparently very good at secrets.

He didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

I grabbed my pillow.

—I’m sleeping in the guest room.

I barely got one foot onto the floor before Julian caught my arm.

—You had a procedure today.

—A minor one.

—You fainted because you saw a pimple.

—It was not a pimple.

—You called it a grain.

—That was before I understood its criminal intentions.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t release me.

—Stay.

One word.

Quiet.

Almost reluctant.

And somehow it stopped me.

I hated that it did.

—Then tell me what Olivia prepared.

Julian went completely still.

There.

That reaction.

My stomach sank.

—It’s something I wanted to give you tomorrow.

—What?

—I can’t tell you tonight.

I stared into the darkness where his face should have been.

—You realize how suspicious that sounds?

—Yes.

—And you’re still not explaining?

—Yes.

I pulled my wrist free.

—Wonderful marriage.

This time he didn’t stop me.

I slept in the guest room.

Or rather, I spent six hours angrily rearranging pillows while constructing increasingly ridiculous theories involving Olivia, secret apartments, hidden children and possibly an underground second family.

At seven in the morning, someone knocked.

I ignored it.

The door opened anyway.

Julian entered carrying breakfast.

Toast.

Eggs.

Coffee.

And the medication I had been prescribed.

He placed everything on the bedside table.

—Eat before taking the antibiotic.

I stared at him.

—Is this husband behavior or doctor behavior?

His expression changed slightly.

—Does it matter?

—Yes.

He looked at me for several seconds.

—Husband.

My anger stumbled.

Only briefly.

Then I remembered Olivia.

—Where are you going?

—Hospital.

—Of course.

He reached the door before stopping.

—Clara.

—What?

—Don’t remove the dressing yourself.

—Why?

—Because you’ll look at the wound, panic and faint again.

I threw a pillow.

He closed the door just before it hit him.

At ten, Maya arrived carrying flowers and absolutely no remorse.

I told her everything.

She listened while eating the strawberries she had supposedly brought for me.

When I finished, she narrowed her eyes.

—So Olivia prepared something for you.

—Correct.

—And your conclusion is that they’re having an affair.

—I didn’t say affair.

—Your face said affair, secret baby and offshore bank account.

I glared at her.

Maya shrugged.

—Ask him.

—I did.

—And?

—He said I’d find out today.

Maya chewed thoughtfully.

—Then wait.

I hated reasonable people.

At eleven thirty, the doorbell rang.

Maya’s eyebrows rose.

I froze.

She immediately smiled.

—Maybe it’s the mistress.

—You’re enjoying this.

—Immensely.

I limped toward the door.

Olivia Park stood outside.

She wasn’t wearing hospital clothes.

She wore jeans, a beige coat and an expression that became instantly nervous when she saw me.

In her hands was a large white box.

—Mrs. Foster?

—Clara.

—Right. Clara.

She looked behind me.

—Is Dr. Foster here?

—No.

Something like panic crossed her face.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

—He told me to bring this at eleven thirty.

—Then give it to me.

She tightened her grip on the box.

—Actually, he specifically told me not to let you open it until he arrived.

Maya appeared over my shoulder.

—Oh, this is fantastic.

I elbowed her.

Olivia looked even more uncomfortable.

—I’ll just leave it here.

She placed the box on the table.

Before she could escape, I asked:

—Olivia.

She turned.

—Yesterday, what did you say to Julian before he smiled?

Her face changed.

Then she laughed.

Not mockingly.

Almost with relief.

—I told him he was behaving like an idiot.

I blinked.

—Excuse me?

—I’m sorry.

She looked embarrassed.

—But he asked my opinion.

—About what?

Olivia glanced at the box.

Then at me.

—You should ask him.

I was beginning to hate that sentence.

She left.

Maya and I stared at the box.

—Open it.

—Julian said not to.

—Since when do you obey your husband?

—Since approximately never.

We opened it.

Inside was another box.

Then tissue paper.

Then—

I stopped breathing.

It was a lamp.

Not an ordinary lamp.

A small adjustable bedside lamp with a warm amber shade.

Beside it was an envelope.

My name was written on the front in Julian’s handwriting.

I opened it.

Inside was a short note.

“Olivia’s brother designs medical lighting. This one can be adjusted gradually. I thought we could start with almost dark.”

I read it twice.

Maya read it over my shoulder.

Then she whispered:

—Oh.

I sat down.

The embarrassment hit first.

Then confusion.

Because the note didn’t explain the important part.

Why did we need to “start” with almost dark?

The front door opened.

Julian entered.

He saw the open box.

Then Maya.

Then me.

His shoulders dropped.

—You opened it.

Maya grabbed her bag.

—I suddenly remembered I have morals and shouldn’t witness married people fighting.

She disappeared.

Traitor number three.

Julian removed his coat.

I held up the note.

—Explain.

His jaw tightened.

—I wanted to do this differently.

—Then do it differently now.

He looked toward the windows.

Bright daylight filled the living room.

And for the first time since I had known him, Julian looked genuinely uncomfortable.

Not cold.

Not distant.

Afraid.

He walked to the curtains and closed them.

My heartbeat changed.

—Julian?

He didn’t answer.

He turned off the ceiling light.

Then he plugged in the new lamp.

Amber light spread softly across the room.

Not bright.

Not dark.

Somewhere between.

He sat opposite me.

His hands were clasped tightly together.

—I don’t turn off the lights because I don’t want to look at you.

I swallowed.

—Then why?

He looked down.

For a man who could cut into another human being without trembling, his fingers were shaking.

—Because I don’t want you looking at me.

I stared at him.

—What?

Slowly, Julian reached for the buttons of his shirt.

My irritation vanished.

—What are you doing?

He opened the first button.

Then the second.

When he reached the fourth, he stopped.

Even beneath the weak amber light, I could see the edge of something across his upper chest.

A scar.

Not small.

Not recent.

It disappeared beneath his shirt.

Julian’s face had gone completely expressionless.

The expression he used whenever he was trying hardest not to show anything.

—I was nineteen.

His voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it.

—There was an accident.

I didn’t interrupt.

—I spent months in hospitals. Multiple surgeries. Skin grafts.

His fingers closed around the fabric.

—Afterward, I couldn’t stand mirrors for a long time.

Suddenly six months of darkness rearranged themselves in my head.

Every switched-off lamp.

Every time he changed clothes in the bathroom.

Every morning he was already dressed before I woke.

Every night he waited until the room was dark.

It had never been about my body.

It was his.

—Why didn’t you tell me?

His laugh was humorless.

—Our second date ended with you saying you wanted a husband who had no complicated secrets.

My heart sank.

I remembered.

I had been joking about one of Maya’s disastrous ex-boyfriends.

Julian apparently hadn’t known that.

—I didn’t mean—

—I know that now.

He looked at the lamp.

—Yesterday, Olivia told me that hiding it forever was stupid.

That smile.

The smile I’d spent an entire night turning into betrayal.

I felt ridiculous.

Then Julian looked directly at me.

—So I asked her to help me find something that might make it easier.

My throat tightened.

I reached toward him.

He instinctively moved back.

Only an inch.

But I noticed.

So I stopped.

—Can I?

His eyes dropped to my hand.

After several seconds, he nodded.

I touched his fingers instead of his chest.

That seemed easier.

—You could have told me.

—I know.

—I’m still angry.

—I know.

—And Olivia is annoyingly pretty.

That startled a real laugh out of him.

Not the tiny smile from the hospital.

A laugh.

Warm.

Unprotected.

I stared.

—You can do that?

—Apparently.

—Six months, Julian.

—I’ve been busy.

I squeezed his hand.

Then his phone rang.

The hospital.

His expression changed as soon as he answered.

—Foster speaking.

Silence.

Then he stood.

—When?

Another pause.

His face drained of color.

—Don’t touch anything. I’m coming.

He ended the call.

I felt the tension in his fingers.

—What’s wrong?

Julian looked at me.

For several seconds he said nothing.

Then his gaze dropped toward the dressing on my thigh.

—Clara, the culture from your abscess came back.

My stomach tightened.

—And?

He picked up his coat.

The softness from moments earlier was gone.

The surgeon had returned.

But underneath it, I saw something much worse.

Fear.

—It’s not the infection we expected.

I stood too quickly and winced.

—What does that mean?

Julian came toward me and caught my shoulders.

—It means you’re coming back to the hospital with me.

—Julian, you’re scaring me.

He hesitated.

Then his phone lit up again.

This time I saw the notification.

LABORATORY ALERT — URGENT.

And underneath it was one sentence that made Julian’s hand tighten around mine.

“Second patient identified.”

There was another person.

With the same infection.

And according to the message, that patient had arrived at Riverside Central three days before I did.

Julian looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.

—Clara, where exactly were you three nights ago?

And suddenly I understood.

He wasn’t asking as my doctor.

He was asking because he already knew the answer.

Or thought he did.
:::