Chapter 4The Careless Heart

I didn't sleep a wink.

The next morning, I told Eric I had a meeting across town and didn’t need a ride. Then I took a cab to the hospital that kept appearing in his GPS history.

A woman's intuition is a terrifyingly accurate thing.

At a quarter to eight, Eric's car pulled up to the main entrance. The girl who stepped out of the passenger seat had eyes as clear as a stream and a smile that lit up her whole face. As she waved goodbye, even the breeze seemed to carry that sweet, cloying scent of citrus.

Back at the office, it took me less than an hour to find her profile on the hospital’s official website.

Clementine Horberg. M.D., Resident Physician in the Respiratory Department.

It didn't take much more effort to find her social media. Like many medical professionals, she used it to share public health information. I scrolled down her feed until I found it.

A post. She was in her white coat, holding up a pair of lung CT scans—one healthy, one not—clearly listing the dangers of secondhand smoke. At the end, she added a gentle reminder: "For the health of those around you, please avoid smoking in enclosed spaces."

The top comment, pinned for all to see, was from an avatar I knew all too well. The tone was sickeningly intimate.

"Got the message loud and clear from Dr. C! All cigarettes have been trashed. Ready for inspection, boss!" It was followed by a little red flag emoji.

Compared to the serious, professional tone of her post, his comment felt like the candy he now carried in his pocket: brazenly, unapologetically sweet.

And then I remembered where I'd seen her before.

Three months ago, Eric's grandmother had been hospitalized for pneumonia. In the respiratory ward. I’d visited her several times. Clementine had been her attending physician.

Eric had spent every day at the hospital back then. My mom had even praised him for it. "You picked a good one, Ava. Eric is such a devoted grandson."

Looking back, it was clear his devotion had been directed elsewhere.

Other overlooked details now screamed at me. A few days ago, on his birthday, he’d received a flood of "Happy Birthday" texts from various boba tea chains. He only ever drank black coffee. He got a new, trendier haircut and started working out, claiming it was all to look good for the wedding.

I had always believed Eric was the most trustworthy man alive. He let me look at his phone whenever I wanted, always told me where he was going, and his social media was a shrine to me. Our anniversaries were never forgotten.

I had become so complacent that when I first felt a flicker of doubt, my immediate reaction was to question my own sanity.

When my workday ended, Eric called. He said he was heading to the gym first.

I kept my voice light. "What's with the sudden fitness kick?"

There was a slight pause on his end before he chuckled. "Got to stay in shape to keep up with you, right?"

I laughed too, a hollow sound. I resisted the childish urge to ask, Keep up with me, or with her?

After we hung up, I opened the smart watch app on my phone. He had probably forgotten that when we were long-distance, I’d given him the watch so we could see each other's heart rates in real time.

Right now, for someone who claimed to be "at the gym," his heart rate was as flat and steady as a calm sea.

I sent him a text. "I'm free tomorrow. Want to go get our pre-wedding health check-ups done?"

It took him a long time to reply. When he did, the message was cheerful.

"Of course, babe." He even added a cute emoji.

The forced pleasantries felt like a layer of plastic wrap, stretched tight over something that was slowly rotting inside.

That was enough.

I wiped the cold tears from my face. Better to rip off the bandage and face the ugly, broken mess underneath than to slowly suffocate in a lie.