Chapter 3 Chapter 3

Eliza POV

I awoke to the hushed sounds of the recovery ward.

The fluorescent lights hummed softly, and the scent of disinfectant was less oppressive here.

Dr. Reeves stood by my bed, a deep sigh escaping her lips.

Her eyes, usually so sharp and professional, were filled with a profound sadness.

"Eliza, you need to take care of yourself," Dr. Reeves said, her voice gentle but firm.

"No more blood donations for at least six months. Your body has been through too much."

She adjusted my blanket, her touch surprisingly tender.

I managed a weak smile, a thin facade over the raw pain.

"I understand, Dr. Reeves. Thank you." The words felt heavy on my tongue.

She nodded, then turned to a younger nurse, Sarah, who was tidying a nearby cart.

They spoke in low tones, but I could still catch snippets of their conversation.

"I can't believe Dr. Burch," Sarah whispered, her voice laced with outrage.

"To force her to donate blood to his new girlfriend, right after her procedure? It's barbaric. He's absolutely heartless."

Dr. Reeves sighed again. "Some people are just good at wearing masks, Sarah.

Eliza always saw the best in him, even when others had doubts.

Now, she sees him for who he truly is. Sometimes, it takes hitting rock bottom to gain that kind of clarity."

Their words were a balm, validating my pain, affirming my newfound, albeit brutal, understanding of Blake.

I reached for my phone, my fingers still a little shaky.

There were several missed calls from unknown numbers, probably Blake's friends.

And then, a text message from Blake.

Stop trying to make trouble. This whole charade is pathetic.

I stared at the screen, a mirthless laugh bubbling up inside me.

He thought I was still trying to "make trouble."

He couldn't fathom the depth of my despair, the cold detachment that had replaced my love.

A strange sense of relief washed over me that he hadn't actually reached me when he called.

What more could he have said to inflict pain? What further depths of cruelty could he have plumbed?

After a day of rest, I felt strong enough to move.

My body still ached, but the numbness in my heart had started to spread, acting as a shield.

I decided to take a short walk in the hospital's outdoor recreational area, needing fresh air.

As I rounded a corner, I saw them: Blake's usual entourage, including his best friend, Dillan Fitzgerald, a wealthy investment banker whose arrogance was only matched by his misogyny.

They were gathered around a table, laughing loudly.

My instinct was to turn and flee, to avoid any further confrontation.

But it was too late. Dillan spotted me.

His eyes, already gleaming with malice, widened in recognition.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the discarded fiancée!" Dillan called out, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

His friends chuckled, turning their attention to me, their faces twisted into sneering grins.

One of them, a loud-mouthed lawyer named Marcus, added, "Still lingering around, Eliza? Playing the poor, heartbroken victim, are we? Trying to milk some sympathy from the hospital staff with your little 'illness'?"

"Yeah, we heard you're faking it," another friend chimed in, "using your doctor's privileges to get a free stay. Pretty low, even for you."

Their words, meant to wound, barely registered. I felt a cold calm settle over me.

Their pettiness was a reflection of Blake's own, a mirror of the man I had foolishly loved.

Just then, Blake himself emerged from the main hospital building, looking refreshed and annoyingly handsome, as if he hadn't just forced me to bleed for his mistress.

He still carried the air of a celebrated surgeon, radiating charisma.

He spotted his friends, then his gaze landed on me. His smile faltered, a flicker of surprise, then irritation, crossing his face.

"Eliza? What are you still doing here?" he demanded, his voice sharp, devoid of any concern.

"Are you really still using up hospital resources for your dramatic display? It's suffocating, Eliza. This constant need for attention, this clinging."

He shook his head, a look of profound distaste on his face.

"Honestly, if you're going to be this clingy and manipulative after we're married, I might as well just divorce you before the ink even dries on the certificate."

My blood ran cold. The sheer audacity of his words, after everything he had done.

But this time, instead of collapsing under the weight of his cruelty, a fire ignited within me.

"That day will never come, Blake," I stated, my voice clear and steady, cutting through the smug laughter of his friends.

The silence that followed was instant and absolute. Their smirks vanished, replaced by stunned expressions.

"What did you say?" Blake asked, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it.

"I said, that day will never come," I repeated, meeting his gaze directly. "Because I won't marry you."

Gasps rippled through his group. Dillan let out a mocking laugh, but it sounded forced.

I remembered the countless times I had adjusted my life, my dreams, around his.

The late nights I spent waiting for him, the sacrifices I made for his career, the unwavering support I offered through every challenge.

I had poured every ounce of my being into building a future with him, convinced that my love was his anchor, his refuge.

Was all that love truly suffocating? Had my devotion become a burden he longed to shed?

No. That was his narrative, his justification for his own monstrous behavior.

I met his eyes again, and saw nothing but cold indifference, a reflection of the man he truly was.

Blake's face was a mask of confusion, quickly giving way to something that resembled hurt.

He pulled a small, velvet box from his pocket and thrust it towards me, a forced smile on his face.

"Eliza, don't be silly. Here, this is for you. A little something to show you how much I care. Just like old times, right?"

He held it out, expecting my usual excited reaction, the eager acceptance of a peace offering.

I looked at the box, then at Dillan standing nearby.

Without a word, I took the box and handed it to Dillan.

"Give it to Kourtney. It'll fit her perfectly."

My words were calm, devoid of anger, but delivered with the precision of a surgeon's cut.

"And don't worry about my blood donation. It was a professional duty. I won't be 'extorting' you for it, or claiming any form of compensation. We're done."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Blake's face—a momentary panic, perhaps?

He seemed about to say something, but Dillan quickly stepped in.

"See, Blake? She's just playing hard to get. She loves you. She's just being dramatic." Dillan clapped Blake on the shoulder.

Blake hesitated, then forced a smirk. "Right. Well, the wedding is still on, Eliza. Don't think for a second you're getting out of it that easily."

His words lacked conviction.

"Go back to Kourtney, Blake," I said, my voice quiet but firm.

"She needs you more than I ever will. I'm checking out. You won't see me again."

I turned, walking away from him and his sycophantic friends.

Blake watched me go, his eyes wide, a strange, bewildered expression on his face.

He looked as if I had suddenly teleported to another galaxy, the distance between us immeasurable.

His friends, however, quickly recovered, their taunts resuming as they led Blake away.

"Good riddance, Eliza! Blake deserves better than a clingy, jealous woman like you!"

Their words bounced off me, hollow and meaningless.

My entire body felt cold, a profound ache in my chest that no amount of physical warmth could touch.

My heart, once a vibrant, beating drum of love, was now a cold, stone-like mass.

I left the hospital that afternoon.

My first stop was the apartment Blake had rented for me, the one he had so coldly commanded me to vacate.

I found all my belongings, boxes and boxes of them, meticulously packed and stacked in the living room.

Everything that linked us—photos, shared gifts, our special mementos—had been relocated from our actual marital home to this temporary, impersonal space.

It was a final, damning statement of his intent: to erase me from our shared life, leaving nothing behind.

I walked through the apartment, feeling nothing.

I called a local junk removal service. An elderly woman responded, arriving with a small, beat-up truck a short while later.

"All these new things, miss?" she asked, her eyes wide as she looked at the pristine boxes filled with memories.

"Are you sure you want to get rid of them? Some of these look brand new."

"Yes," I replied, my voice flat. "Everything. Consider it a purge. My husband died."

My words were an unspoken obituary for the life I had envisioned, for the man I thought I knew.

The old woman's eyes softened. "Oh, dear," she said, gently patting my arm. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. You're so young."

I offered her a faint, sad smile. She didn't need to know the truth. The one that mattered was dead.

As she and her assistant loaded box after box onto the truck, the physical removal of our shared past felt like a final, cathartic release.

Each item taken away chipped another piece of the illusion.

Soon, the apartment was empty, save for a single, small suitcase containing my essentials.

It was all I needed now. All I had left.

Before leaving the city for good, I decided to make one last stop: our marital home.

I wanted to ensure I hadn't forgotten anything truly irreplaceable, something that might inadvertently tie me to him.

I approached the front door, reaching for the smart lock panel to input my fingerprint.

But the scanner remained dark. I tried again. Nothing.

My fingerprint, once a key to our shared sanctuary, had been deleted. The locks had been changed.

He had truly, completely, locked me out.

This was the final, undeniable proof of his intent.