Chapter 4

Limping into the exhibition match's partner hospital with my swollen ankle, I handed over my ID at the front desk.

The nurse typed a few things into the computer, and her expression instantly hardened. She shoved my ID back and said coldly, "Sorry, Ms. Sloan. We can't treat you here."

I froze. Blood from my elbow had already soaked through half my sleeve.

The nurse stared at me without expression and pressed the call button on her desk. Within seconds, two security guards grabbed me by the arms and dragged me out of the emergency room.

I sat down beside a flower bed, my hands shaking as I pulled out my phone and called Jonathan.

It rang for a long time before someone finally answered.

"Hello?"

But it was Amber. She had put me on speaker, and I could hear reporters talking in the background.

"Yvette, you know I'm Jonathan's wife. Why do you keep calling him and harassing him?" She deliberately raised her voice so everyone nearby could hear.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. "I was the one who stood by him through all those years."

I gritted my teeth and asked, "I sold my family home and worked as a housekeeper for eight years to support him. Am I really not even allowed to reach out to him when I'm injured?"

There was a brief silence on the other end.

Then, I heard Jonathan's tired voice. "Just hang up. Stop arguing with her."

He didn't even bother to ask how badly I was hurt.

He added, "Don't stoop to her level. Just put her in her place so she knows where she stands."

The call ended just like that.

Staring at the black screen, I couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh.

Then, I limped all the way back to my apartment.

As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I found my clothes and old books scattered across the floor.

My landlord was standing outside my door, holding a new lock. He avoided my gaze and pointed at the things on the floor. "I'm sorry, Ms. Sloan. I don't have a choice. Here's your security deposit. Just grab your stuff and leave."

In the trash can, the muscle recovery notes and rehabilitation plans I'd stayed up countless nights writing lay shredded.

The elevator chimed, and Jonathan rushed out, breathing heavily. When he saw the mess on the ground and the blood on my arm, his brows furrowed.

He held out a bank card.

"Yvette, can you please knock it off?" His voice was filled with exhaustion and annoyance. "I'll find you a new place once my match is over. Consider the money on this card your compensation."

I didn't take the card. I just looked him straight in the eyes. "You have a wife, yet you still want me to stay by your side. What am I to you, Jonathan?"

His face went pale, and his eyes darted away. "I told you, I'll explain everything when I get back. Can't you just be reasonable for once?"

He checked his watch. "I have a flight to catch. Go find a hotel for tonight."

He turned and stepped into the elevator without taking the card back.

That night, the police came to my motel room. Someone had filed a report with a fabricated voice recording, accusing me of extortion.

The bank card Jonathan had left behind was seized as evidence, and I was taken into custody.

…

Seven days later, Jonathan returned home in triumph after his overseas match. He tried calling me but couldn't get through, and I never replied to his messages.

He rushed over to my family home, where he found my brass key sitting in the mailbox.

It wasn't until someone told him about my arrest that he hurried down to the station.

The officer handed him back the bank card and said, "She posted bail and left."