Chapter 3 - The Wounded Hero
Before Mara could even fully process the magnitude of Vivian's revelation, the door swung open. Ryan walked into the hospital room carrying a massive bouquet of white roses. Not peonies, which were her absolute favorite. White roses—the exact same careless, generic apology men buy when they want their plea for forgiveness to look expensive for the cameras waiting downstairs.
Behind him stood Miles, tense, sweating slightly, and pale. Miles was clutching his phone to his chest like a shield, his eyes darting nervously around the room, avoiding Vivian’s piercing gaze.
Ryan approached the bed, attempting to arrange his face into an expression of profound, gentle sorrow. He reached out to touch Mara’s shoulder, but she shifted away, leaving his hand hovering in the cold air. He said he was so sorry he had not been there the moment she opened her eyes. Mara’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the room like shattered glass. She reminded him that he had not been there when she went under anesthesia, either.
"There was absolute chaos on set, Mara," Ryan pleaded, utilizing that famous, velvety voice that had won him two Golden Globes. "The press got wind of the shoot, the paparazzi swarmed the perimeter. I couldn't leave without drawing them straight to your recovery room."
"There was a kiss, Ryan," Mara corrected coldly. "A prolonged, very public kiss. After they called cut."
Right on cue, the door opened a third time. Brielle St. James entered the room. She wore a perfectly tailored camel cashmere coat, delicate diamond jewelry, and the unmistakable, subtle smile of a woman who had come to inspect the broken wife. Her hand rested lightly, almost performatively, over her flat stomach, as if the pregnancy made her an untouchable saint. She looked at Ryan, then at Mara, and announced she wanted to speak "woman to woman."
Mara did not give her the satisfaction of tears. She did not give her the validation of rage. She simply sat up slightly in the hospital bed, pale from the invasive surgery, yet projecting a calm so absolute it frightened every person standing in the room.
Brielle approached, her voice dripping with manufactured empathy. She apologized for how Mara had to find out, claiming the paparazzi were entirely to blame. Then, she delivered the final blow: she said Ryan simply deserved to be happy, and that true love couldn't be controlled.
That was the mistress anthem, and Mara recognized the melody immediately. Happiness, in Brielle’s twisted version, was something a wife was selfish for not surrendering. Ryan stood protectively near Brielle, stepping slightly in front of her. He was proving more with his body language than his mouth ever could. Even here, in Mara’s recovery room, surrounded by medical equipment monitoring her vital signs, he instinctually chose to protect the other woman.
May you like
Mara finally looked down and picked up the thick white envelope from the cashmere blanket. She held it up into the light. Brielle’s eyes darted to the paper, saw the crest of the private genetics lab, and instantly lost all the color in her beautiful face. Miles visibly flinched and took a heavy step toward the door.
Ryan looked genuinely confused, his brow furrowing. Because in his mind, he still believed he was the tragic, wounded romantic hero of this story, torn between duty and destined love. He had absolutely no idea he was just the punchline.
