Lying on that surgical table was none other than my ex-husband's fiancée.
——
I glanced down at the patient chart to confirm the name.
Sophie Pruitt.
Before my divorce from Rhys, I'd heard that name countless times from his lips. He called her "Sophie," always with such tender devotion it dripped from every syllable.
I'd imagined he must have found some perfect, transcendent love.
This was what that looked like.
I thought back to the day I gave birth. The labor had turned dangerous—hemorrhaging, doctors shouting for family members to be contacted.
But Rhys's phone went straight to voicemail. Every single time.
Meanwhile, photos of him and Sophie wrapped around each other outside luxury hotels flooded every tabloid.
With the Abbott family's resources, he could have buried those photos in an instant if he'd wanted to.
The fact that he didn't made the message clear: he was done hiding her.
He was ready to make her his wife.
When I finally regained consciousness after nearly dying, Rhys appeared at last.
Impatience flickered across his face. "Leonora Simmons, why do you insist on making yourself so pathetic?"