Chapter 0002: Whispers of Betrayal

As I walked into the hospital corridor, I was greeted by most of my coworkers. The sound of my heels echoed behind me. Spotting Amara as she stepped out of her office, I called out to her.

"Hey, Amara," I said as she approached me. "Why is there a police car outside the hospital?" My voice was low, filled with anxiety.

She leaned closer as we walked, bringing her mouth near my ear. "There was an accident," she whispered.

"An accident?" I gasped, stopping in my tracks turning toward her.

"Dr. Michael strangled someone at a bar," she whispered even more quietly, as if she was afraid others might overhear.

My mind raced, and I let out a hard breath as we continued walking toward my office. "We need to do something about Dr. Joel too. I’m worried he might get involved in something even worse."

Amara gave me a knowing look. "You look very vibrant today. I guess your husband is back," she asked with a teasing smile.

"How did you know?" I smiled, warmth spreading through me at the thought of him.

"Seeing that you have a lot of oxytocin," she grinned facing me. "You must still be sexually well active."

"Dr. Amara!" I whispered, playfully nudging her shoulder.

She rolled her eyes, her tone turning serious. “I haven't gotten any in a while, so cut me some slack."

With a smirk, she parted ways at the entrance to my office, and I stepped inside, already thinking about how the rest of the day would unfold.

As I walked into my office, the cold air was biting at my skin. I walked straight to my coat rack. I took my white coat off it and hung the scarf that Noah had given me on the coat rack, appreciating its warmth.

It was a thoughtful move by him. I was on the move to turn when I suspected I saw something on the scarf. I looked closely at the scarf; a single hairline caught my eye, glinting, and the hair's fluorescent lights.

It was long and blonde, starkly different from my own dark hair. I stood there, my heart racing as I stared at it, moving closer to it. My mind races, connecting dots I wish didn't exist. Who did this belong to? Why was it on Noah's scarf?

I feel like I might go crazy soon. I remembered him draping the scarf around my shoulders this morning before coming to the office; his touch was gentle and loving. But now that memory was tainted.

The walk to my desk was heavy as I settled myself at my desk. I tried to focus on work, but my thoughts were a chaotic mess. I replayed bombers in my head, searching for clues with waves of doubt and anxiety.

"Are you listening to me?"

I was so carried away in my own turmoil that I didn't notice the door quietly opening. It wasn't until I heard a soft voice that I was jolted from my reverie.

Startled, I looked up to see a patient standing there, a concerned expression on her face.

"I'm sorry," I said, quickly composing myself. "I didn't hear you come in. Please, have a seat."

She settled in the chair opposite my desk, but my heart was still racing, my thoughts struggling to shift from my personal turmoil to the task at hand. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the present moment. The patient needed my attention, and I couldn't let my suspicion about my husband affect my professional responsibilities.

"I really want to sleep,” She said, her voice weary. "I really need something to help."

As she began to speak, I pushed my doubts aside, determined to give her the care and attention she deserved. But in the back of my mind, the question lingered, waiting for the moment when I would have to confront them again.

"How long has it been since you had trouble sleeping?" I asked, getting my face up. I took a deep breath as I began to speak, forcing myself to focus on the present moment.

"It's been about three months,” she replied, her voice flat, almost hopeless.

"Three months..." I echoed, scribbling a few notes on her chart. "A lot of young women these days use certain medications as appetite suppressants. Have you taken anything like that?"

She shook her head, her expression becoming tense. "I'm not trying to lose weight. I just need some sleeping pills. That’s all."

"Then you should go to the neuropsychiatric department." I said, leaning back in my chair.

Her face tightened with frustration. "Do you think I don't know that? I came here because I didn't want to leave a record there. I already checked that I can get the pills as prescribed by a family doctor."

"Yes, it’s possible," I said carefully. "But I’m very cautious when it comes to prescribing tranquilizers. Plus, I have an ethical obligation as a doctor. Prescribing them to someone who just wants to avoid a psychiatric record doesn’t sit right with me."

Her face hardened as she stood abruptly and walked out, leaving the door to softly click shut behind her. I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The pressure in my mind was building, and with every patient, the gap between my professional demeanor and the personal storm brewing in my mind seemed to widen.

"Thank you for coming," I said, forcing a smile, my thoughts still scattered.

But as I prepared for the next appointment, I couldn't help but feel the growing chasm between my professional demeanor and personal crisis that loomed ever larger in my mind.

A knock on the door snapped me out of my thoughts again. "Dr. Emma," a familiar voice called as the door opened slightly and the woman came in.

"You know, you once told me to regain my self-esteem during menopause and to find something I’m passionate about. That’s why I started painting," the woman said, her eyes bright. "You must come to my exhibition."

I nodded, my smile tight. "I’ll try to make it." But I knew the evening would be spent dealing with a more pressing matter: my growing suspicion about my husband’s activities. I had already made up my mind—I would follow him. I needed to see for myself where he was going and who he was meeting.

"I noticed that you have a different hairstyle." I was trying to change the topic on the ground as my thoughts on hairline made me realize that she has changed her hair color.

She smiled, excitement shining in her eyes. "Being loved by a man is the best way to stay young."

Her words felt like a pointed jab at me, causing the beautiful smile that I was forcing on my face to fly away. People have always said that I looked older than my husband.

"I think I did the right thing by changing my hairstyle because I'm getting a lot of love these days," she added, smoothing her hair.

Her words, ‘I’ve been getting a lot of love recently,’ cause my heart to ache. I stood abruptly, forcing another smile. "You’ve improved greatly. I don’t think you need to come anymore."

She gathered her things, smiling. "I’ll see you at my exhibition, then."

As soon as she left, the weight of her words hit me like a wave. *Getting a lot of love these days.* My mind replayed the scene, and the creeping suspicion about my husband grew stronger. The stray hair on his scarf—it had been blonde, and it hadn’t belonged to me.

I turn slowly, my left feeling heavy as if burdened by the suspicions that plagued me. Walking over to the coat rack, I reached for the scarf. Its fabric, once a comfort, now felt like a betrayal wrapped around my neck.

Feeling anxious with my trembling fingers, I picked at the single, blonde hair that clung to it. My own hair was black, and the sight of this alien strand had been like a slap in the face. I pulled it free, holding it up to the light. It glinted innocently, but to me, it was a silent accuser, whispering of infidelities and secrets.

I wanted to dismiss it, to tell myself it was nothing, but the lipstick I found earlier this morning was a reminder that there were too many coincidences piling up. I rounded it up as I dropped it into the trash, feeling no sense of relief, only a deepening sense of dread.