No Love for the Unworthy

From the time I was rescued by a passerby to when I was discharged from the hospital, Beverly Mitchell never called me. For over a month, there was not even a single message from her.

The only thing I received was an accusatory text on the day of the incident.

"You thought it was a good idea to pull a runaway stunt just because I didn't answer your call? Suit yourself. Don't come back unless it's for good!"

After that, she blocked my number.

Day and night, I was in excruciating pain. I tortured myself daily by scrolling through Beverly's social media, sinking from heartbreak to complete despair.

What stared back at me were cozy pictures of her, her secretary Ashton Larsen, and our daughter Celeste Lane visiting amusement parks together every week.

They looked like a picture-perfect family of three. Meanwhile, as her husband of seven years, I hadn't even made it onto her social media.

I used to think Beverly simply didn't like posting photos of her private life. But apparently, that rule didn't apply to other men.

It wasn't that she disliked sharing her relationship. She just didn't want to share ours.

All the doubts I had in the past came rushing back, and the pain overwhelmed me.

The scars on my chest stretched like snakes, curling down to my abdomen. A glaring, ugly suture ran across my neck. Even now, swallowing felt like knives against my throat.

The physical agony was unbearable. Combined with the betrayal of the woman I loved, it was too much to endure. There were times I thought I wouldn't make it.

While I hovered between life and death in the ICU, Beverly was introducing Celeste to her new dad. The mere thought of it made me sink into the depths of despair, and I felt both ridiculous and pathetic.

When I was finally discharged, I wrapped a heavy scarf around my neck to hide the horrific scar despite the blistering summer heat.

Having been gone for a month, I stood once again at the door of my own home.

I pressed my finger to the lock, but it beeped with an error no matter how many times I tried. I thought maybe it was because my fingerprints had been damaged during my ordeal.

After multiple attempts, the alarm was triggered, and Beverly pulled into the driveway in a rush.

The moment she saw me huddled by the door, helpless, the worry on her face twisted into disdain. She unlocked the door with a sharp glare and smirked coldly.

"Well, look who's back. I didn't think you still remember where you live, Mateo."

Her words stabbed me in the chest, while the scar on my neck seemed to throb with pain. A month's worth of suffering and grievance surged within me.

I stood up and said with red-rimmed eyes, "It's been over a month. I'm surprised you noticed I wasn't home. Why didn't you pick up the phone when I called you? You've ignored me for an entire month. Did you even care if I lived or died?"

"Or maybe," I shouted, my voice shaking, "you were hoping I'd just disappear so you could be with your secretary! You've already flaunted him on social media. What's next? Are you going to announce I'm dead so you can be with another man?"

Beverly, who was changing her shoes, froze. Then, her expression darkened. "How many times do I have to tell you? Ashton is just my secretary! He's competent and trustworthy. Do you expect me to fire him because of your baseless suspicions?

"And if you hadn't gone missing, Celeste wouldn't have been crying her eyes out! I was too busy comforting her to answer your calls. And now you have the audacity to blame me?"

I stared at her, stunned that these words were coming out of her mouth.

I had fought my way back from death just to see her, only to be met with indifference and blame.