Chapter 1: Scalpel, Secrets, and Betrayal

The night my wife cut me open, Chicago was colder than a morgue drawer. One minute I was doubled over in our apartment, the next, Natalie was steering me through sliding ER doors, her hand steady on my back. The air was thick with bleach and burnt coffee. Somewhere, a nurse’s sneakers squeaked on linoleum, the only sound besides my own ragged breathing. I barely remembered the ride—just the metallic tang in the air, the cold bite of the hospital gurney, and Natalie’s calm voice as she barked orders.

On the operating table, Natalie—always the model of composure—started chatting in French with her assistant Derek. Even under the harsh OR lights, I saw her relax, the lines around her eyes softening. She leaned in, her voice low, words curling around Derek like a silk scarf: “Après, tu me montres ce que tu portes ce soir?” I didn’t know the exact translation, but the way she laughed, the way Derek’s lips curled up, told me everything I needed to know. Their words felt like an inside joke, the sort you share in bed, not over an open incision.

Derek replied, his tone lazy and intimate. “J’aimerais bien voir le docteur sans sa blouse…” I didn’t need to speak French to know what he meant. I remembered the first time I heard her laugh like that—at our wedding, not under these lights. Now it was for someone else.

My world shrank to the sound of their voices, overlapping with the hum of the monitors. I stared up at the OR lamp, its glare blinding, my heart pounding against the anesthesia. They thought I was clueless, but I caught every bit of their secret. The anger simmered—fierce, humiliating, raw.

Who could’ve guessed the woman who swore she loved me more than life itself was cheating with her assistant—right in front of me, scalpel in hand? I’d always joked her heart belonged to her job. Turned out, it had walked out the door with Derek long ago. The room was freezing, but inside, I was burning.

Waves of cold swept through my body. Natalie leaned over, brushing my hair off my forehead, her wedding ring flashing beneath the fluorescent lights. Her voice was soft, the same tone she used to calm nervous patients. “It’s alright, don’t be scared. It’ll be over soon.”

The words landed flat. She squeezed my hand, but my fingers stayed limp in hers. I’d asked for local anesthesia—maybe because I trusted her, maybe out of pride. Now, I wished I’d let myself go under, let the drugs pull me away from the truth. Ignorance really was its own anesthesia.

The surgery ended quickly, and exhaustion crashed over me. I faded in and out, the beeping monitors fading to a dull buzz. When I woke, the world felt heavy, unreal. Natalie sat beside me, peeling an apple, her white coat gone. She looked up, concern etched on her face. The apple skin spiraled into the trash in one perfect ribbon. “You’re awake! How do you feel? You feeling okay? Any pain?”

She acted like nothing happened, her tone dripping with care. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes wide, almost convincing. If I hadn’t heard what I heard, I’d still be in the dark. But now, everything tasted sour.

When I didn’t answer, her smile slipped. She leaned in, voice a notch higher, forced cheer sharp as a scalpel. “What’s wrong? Are you uncomfortable? There shouldn’t be a problem—it was just a minor operation.”

Her confidence as a surgeon was legendary. I could almost pity her, clinging to her flawless record as her life unraveled behind the scenes. I forced myself to look away, tracing the holes in the ceiling tile until I could breathe again. “It’s nothing. I feel fine.”

Natalie let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good. Otherwise, I’d have to wonder if my hands are getting rusty.” She tried to laugh, but it bounced off me. Her shoulders dropped—maybe she felt the chill now, too.

The door banged open, and Derek strode in—tall, cocky, stethoscope slung like a gold chain. “Dr. Carter, I have some questions to discuss. Is now a good time?” He barely glanced at me, but the undercurrent in his voice was clear. Natalie’s eyes lit up. She gave me a tight smile, grabbed her coat, and left, her perfume—clean and citrusy—hanging in the air. “I have something to take care of. I’ll come see you later—get some rest.”

As they left, Derek shot me a smug look. I realized then that every slight, every “plus-one” joke at hospital barbecues, was deliberate. I pressed my palm to my incision and followed, wincing with each step. The hospital halls were quiet except for the hum of vending machines and nurses’ shoes on tile. I trailed them to the supply closet.

The “Staff Only” door swung shut. The hallway smelled of lemon polish and something sour. Moments later, I heard the muffled sound of heavy breathing—his and hers, unmistakable. Natalie’s voice was breathless, half-laugh, half-moan: “Stop it! Why are you so impatient? What if someone sees us?”

Derek’s voice, rough and triumphant: “What are you afraid of? We’ve done this so many times and no one’s caught us.”

Natalie, choked with guilt or adrenaline: “But my husband’s still in the hospital!”

Derek: “So what? What’s he gonna do—eat us? Come on, I can’t wait any longer.”

My whole body shook. I felt sick. My thumb hovered over the record button. This felt dirty—like I was the one crossing a line—but I needed proof. In America, no judge cared about gut feelings. I cracked the door, phone in hand, and recorded everything. Then I slipped back to my room, pretending nothing happened. An orderly changed the sheets. I slid under the covers, the beeping of my heart monitor the only thing tethering me to reality.

Natalie came by, cheeks flushed, hair just a little out of place. She set a takeout container on my tray, glancing at the clock. “Honey, you must be hungry. I brought you some food—I made it myself.”

She popped the lid. The spicy buffalo chicken burned my nose before I even tasted it. I’d seen that lunchbox—my lunchbox—in Derek’s hands earlier. My stomach churned, more from betrayal than surgery.

“Come on, try a bite. I made it just for you.” She handed me a fork, her voice too upbeat, too brittle. When I didn’t move, she urged me again, never meeting my eyes.

As a doctor, she should’ve known post-op diets had to be bland. The irony was almost laughable. Disgust rose in me. I turned away, ignoring her. The nurse across the room shot me a look—she could feel the tension, too.

Natalie rolled her eyes. “What’s with the attitude? Eat if you want—if not, whatever. I’m not your maid.”

The patient in the next bed, Mr. Johnson, chimed in, his tone warm but pointed: “Doc, you know folks fresh outta surgery can’t be eating that spicy stuff. You trying to send him back to the OR?”

Only then did Natalie notice. She blushed, stammering. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t realize it was spicy. Wait a moment, I’ll get you something else.” She grabbed the lunchbox and hurried out. My silence was louder than any words.

She came back with a bowl of plain oatmeal, setting it down without meeting my gaze. “Strictly speaking, you should only be having liquid food now, so just make do with this.”

After that, she played the devoted wife—fetching ice chips, fluffing pillows, sitting by my side day and night. To everyone else, we were perfect. But inside, I’d already decided: the marriage was over.

As soon as I was discharged, I walked straight to a lawyer’s office, hospital band still on my wrist. Mrs. Greene, my lawyer, slid a packet across the desk. “We’ll get the ball rolling. Illinois is a no-fault state, but this—” she tapped my phone, “—this is gold.”

I couldn’t wait any longer. Every time I saw Natalie, I felt sick. She didn’t notice a thing. Every day, she was still flirting with her assistant, sometimes not even coming home. Her excuses were textbook—late surgeries, emergencies, the same lies I’d once believed. The sticky notes on the fridge were gone; her calendar was always blank. Now, every message was a lie I could see straight through.

I took a long leave and started following her. Watching them together was torture. Sitting in my car outside the hospital, sipping gas station coffee, scrolling through photos, I felt like a washed-up private eye. Every laugh, every touch, another knife in my gut.

Seeing Natalie so happy with Derek, I felt dazed. Her smile was effortless—real. The last time she smiled at me like that? Maybe our wedding, maybe never. After we married, work stress turned every night into a fight. I’d always thought it was just the job. Turns out, it was Derek.

He’d shown up as a fresh-faced resident, always eager to help. I thought he was harmless. What a joke. So she had someone new—no wonder she couldn’t stand the sight of me anymore. I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, the truth burning like acid.

That night, when I got home, I was ready to confront her. But she surprised me: “Next week, the hospital’s throwing a holiday party. Family can come. You should come with me.”

She tossed the invite on the counter, acting like nothing was wrong. I spotted a red mark on her neck—a hickey. We hadn’t been intimate in months. She didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. I ducked my head, blinking hard so she wouldn’t see me break, and agreed.

Why should she get to enjoy cheating while I suffered alone? In that moment, something inside me hardened. If she wanted a show, I’d give her one. I wanted her to taste pain, too. You reap what you sow.

She hummed around the apartment, oblivious. Her phone sat on the table. I picked it up—every chat scrubbed clean. If I hadn’t known French, I’d still be in the dark. She reemerged, hair damp, towel tight. She smiled, and I smiled back, every tooth bared.