Chapter 2

"Mrs. Chase—sorry, Ms. Sterling—you've suffered an acute gastric spasm caused by intense stress."

In the ER at Sinai Mountain Hospital, the doctor stared gravely at the sheet in his hand.

"You're exhibiting a strong psychogenic rejection to a specific trigger. If it happens again, it might not just be stomach pain—it could escalate to a perforation or even anaphylactic shock. You'll need to stay overnight for observation. Please inform your family as soon as possible."

I didn't say a word.

I'd spent thirty-nine sleepless days in London, negotiating nonstop for the new project.

And at the celebration party, Julian handed me a glass of mango juice that landed me in the emergency room.

Instinctively, I opened our pinned chat thread. I typed a single word—then paused.

Something felt off.

Julian's profile picture had changed.

It was no longer the photo of us beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Now it was a cartoon—a grinning green mango.

As I stared blankly at the screen, his call came through.

His voice was cold, laced with irritation. "I already got back to the apartment. Where are you? Walking out before the party's over—what kind of impression does that leave on the investors?"

I stayed silent.

In the past, I would've softened my tone, feigned sweetness, apologized like a little girl trying to smooth things over.

But tonight, my stomach cramped in pain. So did my heart.

Julian snapped, "Natalie, how long are you going to keep this up? Chloe was just trying to help you get over your fear. Was it really necessary to make a scene?"

"I'm in the hospital." My voice cut him off, cool and even.

There was a pause on the other end. In all our years of marriage, he had never truly cared about my health—and clearly hadn't expected his so-called joke to send me here.

"I'm coming now. Stay there," he muttered after a beat, his voice forced into something almost gentle.

I ended the call without replying. My body felt too drained to even lift a finger.

Time crawled past. A nurse came in three times during the night, checking my vitals, replacing the IV.

Julian never showed up.

Just before I drifted into sleep, I checked my phone one last time. A social media app flashed a story update.

Chloe.

The photo showed a man's hand gently placing a bandage on someone's kneecap. The car seat beneath was unmistakably from our familiar Porsche.

The caption read: "No matter how many times I get hurt... someone's always there. So lucky~"

Her profile picture was now a bright yellow mango.

Lush, sweet, and utterly nauseating.

Julian had known my boundaries for a decade.

He'd spent years navigating high society. He knew how to behave—how to manage relationships, especially with women.

But lately, he kept crossing the line.

Again, and again.

So be it.

Our marriage, the love that once held it together, even the latest project I'd fought so hard to secure—

A $200 million European merger that could've saved the company—

None of it was worth preserving anymore.