He reached for me. I slapped his hand away.
"You're making me very sad." The sigh that escaped him was patronizing, practiced. "Zoe has done a lot for you. What you said last night... it was cruel."
He stepped closer, his voice taking on that coaxing tone one uses with a toddler. "Alright. About the slap... that was my fault. I apologize."
Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against his own cheek. Not hard. Just firm enough.
A performance.
"There. Hit me back. Don't be angry anymore, Fiona."
I wrenched my hand free, staring at him in horror.
He didn't notice.
"Zoe specializes in cardiothoracic surgery," he continued, as if discussing the weather. "Her involvement is critical for your treatment. She wants you to get better. She stayed up for nights researching your case. When we found that potential donor, she was more anxious than I was. Yesterday was just—"
"Is that so?"
My voice sliced through his monologue.
"Then her anxiety has certainly paid off. I'm still lingering in this half-life, surviving but not living. Isn't that exactly what you two want? Using my illness as an excuse to play house together?"
The mask of the doting husband cracked.