Chapter 3

Rhys didn't have time to react. As they tumbled down the stairs, Asher used him as a cushion the entire way. His back and ribs slammed against every hard edge on the way down, and by the time they hit the bottom, the pain was searing.

"Someone call an ambulance!"

Elara's voice, tight with panic, tore through the air above him. Rhys forced his eyes open and saw her sprinting in his direction.

But she wasn't coming for him.

She stepped right over his twitching body without breaking stride and went straight to Asher, who had nothing more than a few scrapes. She crouched beside him like he was something precious, her voice trembling as she asked if he was in pain.

Rhys closed his eyes again. The stabbing pain in his legs was getting worse by the second, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating, tearing sensation in his chest.

The ambulance arrived quickly. But Elara had only called one.

She climbed in herself.

When the paramedics asked if there were any other injured parties, the warmth drained from her voice entirely. "No."

The ambulance pulled away. By the time the one Rhys had called for himself finally showed up, he was on the verge of blacking out.

His leg had twisted at a grotesque angle. The situation was critical, and the doctor told him that a family member needed to sign a risk disclosure form before they could operate.

Rhys didn't want to contact Elara, but the doctor had already dialed her number.

She picked up almost immediately. He closed his eyes and told her, his voice rough and strained, that he was about to go into surgery.

Elara's tone was ice-cold as she cut him off. "Rhys, apologize to Asher right now. Otherwise, there's no reason for us to be in contact."

The last flicker of hope behind Rhys's eyes went out.

He didn't try to explain himself. Instead, he let out a low, hoarse scoff. "In your dreams."

Then, with the very last shred of strength he had, he hung up.

"I'm sorry, doctor." He turned his head to the side, and a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

"I don't have any family. Whatever happens in that operating room, I'll take full responsibility myself."

It was true. He and Elara had never really been husband and wife. From beginning to end, it had only ever been him, wanting something that was never there.

That was all it ever was.

The surgery lasted four hours before the doctors managed to pull him back. But the surgeon's tone was grim.

"The nerves in your leg are completely dead. You'll have a permanent limp for the rest of your life, and any strenuous physical activity is out of the question. If you'd been brought in sooner, there might've been a chance."

If Elara hadn't lied to the paramedics when the first ambulance arrived, Rhys would not have been left with a permanent disability.

He closed his eyes in a daze, and all he could see was every version of himself that used to be, riding wild across open fields, sprinting against the setting sun, tearing down a track at full speed. All of that was gone now, and he'd lost the right to that kind of freedom.

The moment the anesthesia wore off, the first thing Rhys did was send the divorce papers to Howard Doyle. Howard told him the process would take about two weeks.

The second thing he did was pull the high-definition security footage from the stairwell. The camera angle was completely unobstructed. It showed, with perfect clarity, that Asher had grabbed Rhys and thrown them both backward on purpose.

Rhys sent the video to Elara. Her incoming call lit up the screen almost immediately.

He ignored it, muted his phone, and tossed it aside.

An hour later, Elara walked into his hospital room with a dark expression.