I bit down hard on my lip. The taste of iron flooded my mouth.
Word by word, I said, "Fine. In this life, we go our separate ways."
The fire this time around had been contained quickly. A few million dollars' worth of equipment was destroyed, but thankfully there were no casualties. My arm had still been burned, but the doctor said with proper care, it might not even scar.
I looked down at my hands, pale and nimble and whole. The tears came anyway.
Eugene made no effort to hide where his loyalties lay. He was practically glued to Sylvia's bedside.
Colleagues and staff flooded my phone with messages. Texts. Candid photos taken on the sly.
He'd pulled strings to get her moved into a VIP suite. He'd taken leave from work and stayed with her around the clock. He wouldn't let anyone else help. He bathed her himself, set up a private kitchen in the hospital, cooked her meals, and fed her by hand.
The Eugene in those photos was patient and tender in a way I had never once seen directed at me.
The bitterness rose in my chest despite everything.
My coworkers were livid. The group chat exploded.
"What is Mr. Henson thinking? His own wife got hospitalized saving his life, and he doesn't even visit."