Chapter 5: Tristan's Obsession

Tristan's POV

I couldn't focus on the surgery in front of me. Mr. Patterson's mitral valve was in front of me, the instruments were in my hands, but my mind was in that café, watching Elena walk away with another man's hand on her back.

"Dr. Caine?" My resident's voice cut through my thoughts. "The valve replacement?"

I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. Focus. Save the patient in front of you. Worry about your crumbling marriage later.

Except it wasn't a real marriage, was it? It was a contract. An arrangement. So why did the thought of Elena leaving make me want to destroy something?

"Suction," I ordered, my hands moving with practiced precision even as my thoughts spiraled. "And someone get me an update on Mrs. Henderson's post-op vitals."

The surgery took three hours. Three hours of perfect technique, of saving a life, of doing what I did best. But the moment I stepped out of that OR, the dark thoughts came rushing back.

Elena. Marco Bennett. That protective touch on her back. The way she'd looked at him, without the walls she always had up around me.

"Linda," I barked into my phone. "I need everything you can find on Marco Bennett. Everything."

"Sir?"

"Now, Linda."

An hour later, I was sitting in my office, staring at a file that made my jaw clench harder with every page. Marco Bennett wasn't just some medical illustrator. He was award-winning. Forbes 30 Under 30. Guest lecturer at prestigious institutions around the world. His work commanded six-figure commissions.

"There's more," Linda said, her voice carefully neutral. "He's single. No romantic attachments on record. And sir, he and Elena were very close during their time in the medical illustration program together."

My hand tightened on the file. "Define close."

"Their professors thought they were dating. They spent nearly every waking hour together in the studio." Linda paused. "There's also this: Elena was offered a full scholarship to study in Italy. A prestigious fellowship that only accepts three artists a year worldwide."

I looked up sharply. "What?"

"She turned it down when you hired her as your surgical assistant." Linda's tone held something I couldn't quite identify. Disappointment? "Her professors were shocked. They said she was the most talented student they'd seen in decades."

The words settled in my stomach like stones. Elena had given up a fellowship in Italy to work for me? Why hadn't I known this? Had I ever even asked about her interests, her dreams, her past?

The answer sat heavy in my chest. No. I'd never asked because I'd never cared to know. She was my wife on paper, my assistant in practice, and my release in the darkness. But her interior world, her aspirations, who she was beyond those roles, I'd never bothered to learn.

"Should I look into acquiring his company?" I heard myself ask.

Linda gave me a long, measured look. "Is that really what this is about, sir?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"With respect, Dr. Caine, maybe instead of trying to buy your wife's colleague's company, you should try talking to your wife."

I dismissed her with a wave, but her words lingered like smoke. Talk to Elena. About what? About why the thought of her in Marco's studio made me want to tear the building down brick by brick? About why seeing her walk away had felt like losing something vital?

My phone buzzed. Serena.

"Dinner tonight? I miss you, baby."

I stared at the message, waiting for the usual warmth I felt when Serena reached out. It didn't come. Instead, all I could think about was Elena's face when I'd suspended her. The hurt in her eyes. The way her voice had broken when she'd said she couldn't do this anymore.

I ignored Serena's text and called my driver. "Take me home."

The penthouse was dark when I arrived. Elena's car wasn't in the garage. Where was she? Still with Marco? The thought made my blood boil.

I poured myself a scotch and stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city lights. This penthouse had always felt empty, even with Elena here. Maybe because she'd never really been here, not in any way that mattered. She existed in the guest bedroom, in the shadows, careful never to impose.

Just like I'd wanted.

Except now the thought of her being gone, truly gone, made the emptiness unbearable.

My phone rang. An unknown number.

"Dr. Caine? This is St. Mary's Emergency. We have your wife here."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"She collapsed. A friend brought her in. You're listed as her emergency contact."

I didn't remember the drive to the hospital. One moment I was in my penthouse, the next I was striding through St. Mary's ER, still in my expensive suit, demanding to see her.

"Mr. Caine?" A young ER doctor approached. "Your wife is stable. She fainted, likely from dehydration and stress."

"Where is she?"

"Room 3. But sir, there's something you should know."

I was already moving, pushing past him, following the room numbers until I found her. Elena was sitting up in the bed, pale but conscious. And Marco Bennett was in the chair beside her, holding her hand.

Rage, white-hot and irrational, flooded through me.

"Get away from my wife," I growled.

Marco stood, his jaw tight. "She needed someone. Where were you?"

"That's none of your business."

"It is when you make her collapse from stress." Marco's eyes were hard. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to her? How much you're hurting her?"

"Marco, please," Elena's voice was weak. "Just go. I'll be fine."

"Elena."

"Please."

Marco looked like he wanted to argue, but he just squeezed her hand once more and left, shooting me a look that promised this wasn't over.

I moved to Elena's bedside, my anger warring with concern. "What happened?"

"I fainted. It's no big deal."

"It is a big deal." My hands were already checking her vitals professionally, doctor mode overriding husband mode. "You're dehydrated. Your blood pressure is too low. When's the last time you ate?"

"I don't remember." Her voice was small.

Something in my chest cracked. "Elena."

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't pretend to care now, Tristan. We both know this isn't real."

"You're my wife."

"Your contract wife. There's a difference." She pulled her hand away when I tried to touch it. "The doctor said I can go home soon. You don't have to stay."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Why not? You're good at it." Her voice cracked. "You left me for Serena three days ago. You left me alone in that hallway after suspending me. You've been leaving me our entire marriage. Why stop now?"

Each word was a scalpel, cutting deeper than any blade I'd wielded in an OR. Because she was right. I had left her, over and over, in every way that mattered.

"I'm sorry," I heard myself say.

Elena laughed, but it was broken. "Sorry? You're sorry? That doesn't fix anything, Tristan. That doesn't change the fact that you love someone else. That doesn't change the fact that I'm just your convenient arrangement."

"You're more than that."

"Am I? Then tell me, when's my birthday? What's my favorite color? What did I dream of before I became your assistant?" Her green eyes challenged me. "You don't know, do you? Because you've never cared to ask."

She was right. God help me, she was right about all of it.

The ER doctor knocked and entered. "Mrs. Caine? Your discharge papers are ready. And I wanted to remind you, given your condition, you need to take it easy. Lots of rest, proper nutrition, and make sure you attend all your prenatal appointments."

The world stopped spinning.

Prenatal appointments.

I looked at Elena, saw the color drain from her face, saw her hand move instinctively to her stomach before she caught herself.

"Thank you, doctor," she whispered. "I'll be careful."

When the doctor left, the silence between us was deafening.

"Elena," I said slowly, carefully. "What did he mean by prenatal appointments?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "Tristan."

"Are you pregnant?"

One tear spilled down her cheek. Then another.

And I knew.