Betrayed By My Husband, Became His Greatest Nightmare

Juniper:

 After four years of marriage, I found out that my husband wasn’t allergic to touch as he claimed. He was just allergic to…me. For years, the elusive owner of Tristan Corps was revered by all, me inclusive. I always went through the blogs searching for the latest news about him. Then I saved his life by a stroke of fate with my unmatchable medical knowledge. He married me after that, giving me rules and more rules.

  “We can only be a married couple by the name, Juniper. You’re free to live your life as you wish. And in all you do, never touch me.” He’d said. I was happy at the time. I was his wife, and that made all the difference. I could get him to fall in love with me. My father frowned upon the marriage; I should’ve listened to him. I should’ve known that no matter what I did, no matter how much I helped Tristan clinch international contracts and many awards, and hide my real identity, he’d never love me.

   I looked at my hand as I laid on my hospital bed, a drip stand beside me, the fluid flowing through my veins. He let me fall. He watched me as I tumbled on the stairs when he had the chance to catch me.

 "Tristan! Help!" I called out his name again. It was not a scream, but a command.

 He didn't even flinch. "You know the rules, Juniper," he said, his voice fearfully calm. "I don't touch you. Don't use a fall to trick me into breaking those rules."

 Then I let go of the railing. But yet, I didn't plead to him. As I tumbled, my last thought wasn't about the pain, but of the realization that I had spent four years saving a man who wouldn't even raise a finger to save me.

  “You know I’m allergic to touch.” He added, and watched as I fell. He didn’t even help me up as the servants hurried over to take me to the hospital.

  His phone rang, and his face softened as he picked up the call. He gave me a curt nod, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. There’s somewhere I need to be.”

  “Tristan!” I called out in a last-minute effort, struggling to maintain consciousness. The fall was bad, and blood was seeping through a wound on my head. He didn’t even flinch at the sight. “Tomorrow is my birthday,” I said.

 He nodded.

  “Marble cake and roses will be delivered before six am as usual.” He left in a hurry, as if the mere sight of me irritated him. Marble cake and roses. I didn’t even like marble cake, and I had an allergy to roses. Yet, year after year, since we got married, he made sure it was dutifully delivered on my birthday.

  I was rushed to the hospital, and the grim face on the doctor’s face made my heart beat fast.

  “You have a spleen injury, and you need surgery for it.” He said. My eyes widened.

“Can I call my husband before the surgery?” I asked.

“Of course,” he nodded, and passed some instructions to the nurse.

  I looked at the doctor. I really need surgery at this time. But I felt disgraced as the thought of calling Tristan struck my mind.

 "Yes, immediately."

 I picked up my phone. I called Tristan once. It went to voicemail. A doctor wouldn't waste time on a flatline, and my marriage was officially as bad as dead. I signed the agreement forms with a firm hand. If I was going to survive this, I would do it the way I’d done everything else for the last four years—all alone.

  “Tristan, the doctor said I injured my spleen, and might need to go in for a surgery. Please get down to the hospital as soon as you see this message.” I hesitated before adding, “We need to pay before surgery commences.”

  He never came. I was sure the text was delivered to him. Then I paid for the procedure myself, and when the next morning, a ruffle sounded, I opened my eyes, hoping to see him all apologetic and apologizing for not rushing down to the hospital as fast as he could. But it wasn’t Tristan. It was a nurse, holding onto my phone. The ward looked different, unfamiliar.

  “The surgery went well, and you’ve been moved to the VIP ward. You also have five missed calls.” She said, and my heart skipped a beat as she passed my phone to me. It had to be Tristan. Yet again, it wasn’t. A call came in, and I picked it.

  “Juniper,” my friend sounded anxious, and I tried to sit up but decided against it. As a doctor, I knew the consequences. “Have you seen the news?” She asked.

  I frowned and told her I went in for surgery the previous night. She screamed.

  “You went in for surgery last night?” And in a strange voice, she questioned, “Where was Tristan? Was he with you?”

  I swallowed hard. Tears stood in my eyes, and I pushed them back. Perhaps reading into my silence, she sighed.

  “Check the news. It’s bad.”

  The nurse switched on the television, and it was on the entertainment channel. My body went cold, and I felt like I’d been thrown into an ice cellar at the news headline.

 POPULAR OWNER OF TRISTAN CORPS RESCUES ACTRESS FROM DROWNING. HAS THE ELUSIVE MAN FINALLY FOUND A WIFE?

  I watched the replayed video of my husband—drenched and soaking—coming out of a pool with a woman in his arms. Tristan was carrying a woman. Tristan, who was allergic to touch. Tristan, who replaced his phone when I mistakenly touched it, who berated me when I cleaned his favorite vase in an effort to please him. He had the vase thrown away the next day. I was convinced he was truly allergic to touch, he wouldn’t even sleep in the same room with me, or use the same car. Yet, that same man was carrying another woman in his arms like she was the most delicate thing, face furrowed in worry. Was she the one who called him last night? Was she the reason why he didn’t pick my calls, and was away the whole night?

  I gripped my phone hard.

  “Juniper,” my friend called softly. “You have endured enough. This is beneath you. Does he even know your real identity?” She asked.

  I exhaled slowly, a burning look coming into my eyes. “He doesn’t. I didn’t think he had to know. If he couldn’t treat me well despite almost killing myself while saving him, then what good would it be to tell him who I really am?”

 “What are you going to do about it?” Ellen asked, and my calmness surprised even myself. There was no anger, no frustration, just that numbness.

  “What I should’ve done a long time ago,” I replied. With the decision, my mind finally settled.

  “Okay. Let me know if you want me to come pick you up. Or would you call your father instead?” Her last words bordered on a little hesitation. I sighed.

“I don’t know yet.”

 The door pushed open just then, and Tristan walked in. His face was indifferent, even though my physical state wasn’t good.

 “You called.” He simply said.

“Where were you last night?” I asked, wanting to hear it from his mouth. He glared at me as he would a stranger, as if I didn’t matter to him—not that I ever did.

  “Have I started reporting my whereabouts to you?” He retorted. He was dressed in black suit and slacks.

  “I had to undergo a surgery, because you let me fall, Tristan!” I burst out. I couldn’t help it. His aloofness was beginning to irritate me. “You don’t want to tell me where you were? Fine. I’ll tell you. You were out there with another woman. And–”

  "You were out there with her," I said, my voice cold. "While I was going under operation, you were playing the hero for Rayna."

 Tristan didn't slap me. Instead, he stepped right into my side, his shadow spreading over my hospital bed. Immediately, the air in the room turned to frost.

 "Rayna is worth ten of you," he hissed, his eyes burning with a dark, twisted resentment. "You manipulated your way into this marriage using a medical favor as leverage. Don't you dare compare your cheap, so-called witty schemes to her innocence.

He looked at my bandages, feeling unconcerned about me. "Now, you're going to fix the mess you made. You'll tell the press you pushed her. It's time you actually became useful to me.”

 I kept staring at him.

  “Rayna isn’t someone you’re fit to talk about,” he spat, his eyes burning with anger. I smiled—a sad line drawn across my forehead.

  “You are yelling at me because of her? Even asking me to lie against myself just for that devil of a girl?” My voice was low. “We are getting a div–”

  “I’m not asking for your permission. You must do it.” He said, and I paused. I waited for him to continue.

  “Rayna’s job offers will be affected if word gets out that she’s clumsy enough to fall into a pool,” he continued, and I frowned, not making any sense of his words at all. I didn’t have to wait for long.

  “I want you to claim that you pushed her into the pool. There’s no CCTV close to the pool, nor was there anyone present when she fell. It’d be easy for you to take the fall. You just have to spend six months in prison. My lawyers will make sure it's a minimum-security facility, and you might be out in three months... Well, it's just for the sake of the headlines.” He said, and I felt something clench my chest.

  “You really want me to claim to be behind your lover’s fall?” I asked, my head buzzing. I was still in pain from the surgery. Not once did he ask how the surgery went.

  “It’s nothing much. You have no career or image to protect. Besides, no one knows you’re my wife,” he studied my face. “I’ll pay you.” He added.

  “I refuse.” I spat. Did he think I was a naive lady whom he could order around as he pleased?

  Someone walked in, and when I saw who it was, my chest burned in anger.

 “Tristan,” Rayna called softly, coming over to entangle her arm with Tristan’s. Up close, she looked very beautiful. Tristan’s eyes softened, and he leaned into her touch. He didn’t push her away, didn’t try to clean the spot like he’d do if I were the one who dared to hug him.

  “She didn’t agree?” She asked, acting all pitiful, her glance fleeting in my direction. I spotted the brief look of triumph that crossed her eyes, and it dawned on me. She knew about our secret marriage, knew about my relationship with Tristan, and she was rubbing it on my face. I cleared my throat, making sure my voice was clear enough.

  “Tristan, let’s get a divorce.”