The cursor pulsed on the screen like a heart monitor on a flatline—steady and indifferent—awaiting the shock that would upend my existence.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, numbed from a long shift at St. Luke’s in downtown Chicago, preparing to input what I had typed countless times: our anniversary date. Rowan was notorious for never altering his passwords; he thrived on routines and precise order. My goal was simply to order pizza since my phone was out of battery. My feet were sore, and the antiseptic aroma clung to my scrubs. Just another typical Thursday evening in America—shift, shower, comfort food, then rest.
The screen flickered to life.
In that moment, my universe fractured.
On the desktop sat two folders, almost taunting me: Forever and New Beginning. These weren’t work folders—Rowan was adamant about maintaining strict separation between work and home. He often spoke of HIPAA and patient privacy over our shared meals. Personal files on his laptop were an absolute no-go. Always.
A chill coursed down my spine.
I clicked on Forever.
The first image stole the breath from my lungs. There stood Rowan, clad in a tuxedo I had never seen before—its tailor was finer than anything in his wardrobe—beside a woman adorned in a wedding gown. But not just any woman. Celeste Whitmore, whose last name was synonymous with prestige, belonging to the elite Whitmore family known for their influence that stretched from the North Shore to Palm Beach. She was the girl his parents, Vivien and Sterling Blackwood, had long paraded before him like an unattainable prize even before Rowan and I had crossed paths.
My hands were steady, almost surgical, akin to when a critical patient needs attention and there’s no room for panic.
Before I could process everything, let me introduce myself. I’m Mera. I spent my childhood above my grandmother’s tailor shop on the South Side, enveloped by the scent of steam and thread. I took the CTA to classes and then to clinicals, learning to count medications out of instinct and compassion. When I met Dr. Rowan Blackwood in the corridors of St. Luke’s—disheveled scrubs and warm eyes, that smile which made you feel valued—I thought I had stepped into a fairy tale kissed by fluorescent lights.
His family’s perspective was vastly different.
From the very start, Vivien Blackwood donned pearls and an aura of disapproval as if they were her battle attire. “Such a lovely girl,” she would coo during Sunday dinners in Winnetka, sweetening her venom. “But tell me, where did you say you studied again, dear?” Sterling would camouflaged disdain between his cuff links, often chatting around me rather than with me, as though I were simply decor. “The Whitmores keep asking about you, Rowan. Celeste just concluded her MBA at Wharton. Talk about ambition!”
For seven years, I played the role of the compliant partner. I brought desserts to their dinners, complimented Vivien’s chandelier earrings, and endured Sterling’s humiliating comments about my ethnicity, putting up with jibes about “immigrants who should be grateful.” Beneath the table, Rowan would squeeze my hand and whisper, “They’ll warm up to you.”
That never happened. They only fortified their defenses.
I scrolled through the folder further. Contracts with a Las Vegas resort were dated just three months prior. Proposals for catering arrangements for two hundred guests flashed across the screen. Drafted emails addressed to his surgical team regarding a “special occasion” surfaced. I felt my stomach turn when I spotted a PDF labeled Vows_Rev2. My mind cataloged everything, functioning like a nurse assessing the damage at a scene of chaos.
Then came the messages.
“Can’t wait to finalize our escape from her,” he had messaged to a contact stored as C. “Mom was right about her. I should’ve acknowledged from the start that Mera was a mistake.”
Seven years together. Two losses. Countless quiet nights where I held him as he faced residency fears. Reduced to one utterance: mistake.
The cursor blinked in a fresh text thread daring me to respond. I remained silent and continued scrolling. Emails surfaced—Vivien to her legal advisor—drafting an elaborate plot for my downfall: a fabricated affair, claims of “mental instability,” hiring a private investigator to follow me after shifts, snapshots of me laughing with male colleagues at the nurse’s station, and a whispered mention of Garrett from radiology being “willing to cooperate.” They had laid this groundwork for two years. Bit by bit. Lie by lie.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter as if to announce that life had not changed. Battery revived. A message from Luna—my best friend since biology class: “Wine night tomorrow?” I stared dumbly at the message until it blurred, then looked back at the laptop. Tomorrow. There it was: an itinerary to McCarran Airport—now called Harry Reid International—for a flight to Las Vegas. Two tickets departing at 10 a.m.
My pulse became something stable, but not peaceful—sharper. Purposeful.
I shut the laptop, opened my food application, and ordered a large pepperoni pizza as though the night hadn’t been torn asunder.
Two hours later, Rowan stepped inside, his expensive Chicago winter coat still clinging to him. I kissed him as I always did. He tasted of mint and—something I struggled to identify anymore.
“Long day?” I asked, taking his coat in a wife-like manner.
“Exhausting. Mom called about Sunday dinner. I told her we could make it.”
“Alright.” I held a smile broad enough to mask my heartache. “I’ll whip up coconut cake. She adores that.”
He hesitated. Reading my face with an intensity that almost frightened me. “Everything okay? You seem… off.”
“Just tired. Picked up an extra shift.”