Price of Betrayal

"Dr. Becker, this patient has a cranial fracture and is in critical condition. She needs immediate emergency treatment!"

Several nurses hurried over, trying to lift me onto a stretcher, but they were stopped cold by my husband, Matthew Becker.

The pile-up had left victims scattered across the highway like fallen leaves in a storm. The entire expressway was shut down, and even with three ambulances on site, there weren't enough to evacuate all the injured.

Matthew walked over, his expression unreadable. He lifted my eyelids for a cursory glance before pulling out a tissue to wipe away the blood that had sullied his hands, his distaste plain as day.

"She's beyond saving," he declared flatly. "No one could pull her back from this. Stop wasting time—let it go."

I wanted to scream, to plead, to beg him not to give up on me, but my voice was trapped somewhere deep inside me, unreachable. The only movement I could muster was the faint twitch of my fingers, desperate to grab hold of him.

Surely, I thought, he'd soften at the sight of me, and allow the ambulance to take me for treatment.

But instead, he pushed my hand aside, cold and deliberate.

The chill in my heart was worse than the pain racking my body. I understood then—Matthew wasn't acting out of panic or ignorance. He meant every word, every action.

But why?

I had come to pick him up from the hospital today. He'd texted me in the morning, urging me to come quickly. He said he was exhausted after attending back-to-back seminars for three days straight and needed me to drive him home.

On the way there, I got caught up in this accident. And now, I was lying crushed under a truck tire on the highway after a chain-reaction collision.

When I first regained consciousness, barely clinging to life, I used what little strength I had left to call him for help. He arrived soon enough—but not for me.

He ran past me, shouting his first love's name.

"Leona!" he called, his voice filled with an urgency I had never heard from him before.

Even when his eyes landed on me sprawled on the asphalt, he pretended not to see, his foot stepping cruelly onto my already broken body as he hurried past.

That single, brutal act sent me spiraling into agony, my skull fractured, my pain indescribable.

When rescuers finally pulled me out and prepared to rush me to the hospital, Matthew stepped in again.

"Dr. Becker, we can't just abandon her! She's still alive!" one of the nurses protested.

Matthew let out a sharp, disdainful laugh. "There are other victims who need care more than she does. Why waste resources on her?"

"And besides," he added, his tone cutting, "I'm the attending physician. Who's in charge here—you or me?"

The nurse faltered under his glare, retreating into silence.

Matthew didn't stop there. "Prepare a Do Not Resuscitate consent form," he ordered. "I'm her husband, and I'll sign it."

The words hit me like a thunderclap, each syllable carving out the last remnants of hope in my chest.

Matthew was a renowned respiratory specialist, a man who held sway over life and death in the hospital halls. If he insisted on blocking my treatment, there was no one who could defy him.

"I don't want to die. Please, someone save me," I rasped.

"Please..."

But when Matthew left, the nurses followed.

I reached out blindly, grabbing onto the sleeve of one nurse who hesitated at the doorway. My fingers clung desperately as I looked up at her with pleading eyes.

Her face betrayed a flicker of pity, but it was fleeting. She gently pried my hand away.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I can't risk losing my job."

And then she was gone, leaving me alone with my despair.

"Blame the heavens," she said softly, her back already turned. "Some people are just born unlucky."