Our Anniversary, His Big Betrayal

Everyone froze.

I realized who was on the operating table—Yuna Cate.

Checked the chart again. Still her.

A cold laugh slipped out.

Jimmy Ley, my husband—MIA on our anniversary—hadn't just disappeared. He'd been busy shacking up with his buddy's fiancée. And now she was in my OR because they hooked up while she was pregnant and triggered a full-blown medical emergency.

Straight-up tabloid trash. Only this time, it was real—and it was mine.

Five years married, and this was where we landed.

Yuna looked like she wanted to vanish, but still wailed, "Jimmy! I want Jimmy! Please, let my husband stay—I'm scared!"

I shoved her hand away. "That's against protocol."

She snapped, shoved the anesthesiologist. "Then I'm not doing it! I'll die right here! Let's see who freaks out first."

Everyone went stiff. No one moved.

Eventually, the department head gave in. Jimmy was allowed in—after he scrubbed up.

He rushed in, didn't even blink, just grabbed her hand like they were some tragic love story. "This is my fault. I shouldn't've been so rough. I forgot you're pregnant."

Yuna, all teary, shook her head. "I wanted to. It's not your fault."

Jimmy smirked. "Nah—it's your fault. You're just too irresistible."

My grip on the scalpel faltered. Just a little.

Jimmy pounced. "What kind of surgeon lets her hands shake like that? Who even approved this?"

I looked up.

Our eyes locked—and for a second, the whole room felt like it flatlined.

He didn't recognize me.

Didn't blink when he jabbed a finger at me. "If anything happens to my wife, I'll sue you into the ground."

Your wife?

You picked this hospital miles away from home just to dodge me. Joke's on you—I was here for one day. Just one exchange rotation. And bam—walked right into your little soap opera.

No one here knew he was mine. So he put on the devoted-husband act—for someone else—like it was nothing.

I laughed. Real quiet, real cold. Jimmy caught it. Hated it. But with all eyes on him, he swallowed whatever tantrum he was brewing and just stared me down.

After surgery, I stepped off the platform—and there he was in the hallway, making a call.

"Andy, just grab something for my wife. Tell her I'm out on business, can't make it back. She'll get over it. Oh, and say I'll be off the grid for a few days—don't let her blow up my phone."

Click.

Not two seconds later, his assistant's message dropped.

[Bouquet's ordered. Dinner for two booked. Happy anniversary.]