PlotlumeHalf an hour before my tumor surgery, the nurse gave me a final warning to pay.
Trembling, I entered the PIN for the bank card Jake Hayes had given me.
Our anniversary, his birthday, my birthday—all wrong.
On my seventh attempt, I looked at another patient on a nearby bed, doubled over in pain,
and, almost without thinking, entered the birthday of his childhood friend, Delia Norwood.
The payment went through.
It also unlocked the private notes he had synced to the cloud.
Inside was a file devoted to Delia: her period, her online loan repayment dates, even a bakery she had casually praised, marked with a star.
For me, there was only one perfunctory line: “Saturday, take her for follow-up. Don’t forget.”
Even the date was wrong. Today was not a follow-up. Today I was going under the knife.
The final section of the note recorded a transfer he had made last month.
Exactly eleven thousand dollars. Every last cent had gone to repay Delia’s online loans.
Seven years together, and only last night he had stood at my bedside with red eyes, saying his memory was poor but he valued me more than his life.
I pulled the cannula from the back of my hand, bundled the screenshots, and sent them to his family group chat.
Then I called Callum Delaney, the Hayes family’s sworn rival.
“Mr. Delaney, that surgeon you mentioned—is it still possible to arrange it?”
1
“Yes.” Callum’s voice came through the phone with its usual cool composure.
“But Ms. Prescott, if you change surgeons and hospitals at this stage, you’ll need to be admitted again.”
I pressed my aching right abdomen and leaned against the tiled corridor wall.
“All right. I’ll come now.”
“Shall I send a car?” Callum asked.
“No, I’ll take a taxi.”
The moment I hung up, Jake’s incoming call took over the screen.
I watched “Jake” flash for a dozen seconds before answering.
“Grace Prescott, did you have to make such an ugly scene in the family group?”
He sounded less angry than wearily superior.
“Delia was scammed recently. Debt collectors called her workplace. Taking that money was a temporary measure. Should I have watched them drive her to her death?”
I looked down at my toes and spoke softly.
“If it was temporary, why change the PIN to her birthday?”
There was a two-second pause.
Jake sighed and softened his tone.
“She went to the bank to get that card for me. She chose the PIN casually. I’m so busy with work—when would I find time to change tiny details?”
“Grace, you’re usually not so petty. I know you’re upset about going to your follow-up alone, but I’m in a meeting.”
“Delete the screenshots. I’ll take you for your favorite Japanese food tonight, all right?”
His practiced reassurance made my stomach spasm.
Last month, he had put that card in my wallet with his own hands, in front of me.
He said it was our wedding fund and that I would control our household finances from then on.
“Jake,” I interrupted.
“Return the eleven thousand dollars. It’s my surgery money.”
His breathing grew heavier, impatience entering his voice.
“What surgery money? Isn’t this a routine follow-up? Didn’t the doctor say medication would take care of your nodule?”
“Grace, when did you start lying for money? Delia can barely afford food. Can’t you stop putting pressure on her now?”
I opened my mouth, then felt there was no point explaining.
He did not remember the biopsy report I had shown him last week. Nor how, when pain kept me awake all night, he had merely rolled over and complained I was noisy.
“I’m not lying.” I looked at the emergency exit at the end of the corridor.
“If you don’t return it, I’ll report an unauthorized withdrawal to the police.”
“Grace!” His voice rose. “You’re completely unreasonable.”
“Take some time to calm down.”
He hung up on me.
I stared at the screen and was about to open a taxi app when a notification appeared.
You have been removed from the Hayes family’s shared cloud. Your access has expired.
For seven years, that had been our digital home, holding all our photos, bills, and plans for the future.
Now, to punish my supposed immaturity, he had stripped away my place with ease.
I looked at the grayed-out icon, put my phone in my pocket, and walked out of the hospital.
2
The private hospital Callum arranged was in the city center.
After another series of preoperative tests, the surgeon told me that delays in my treatment, combined with today’s emotional distress, meant postponing surgery for three days.
I lay in my hospital room, watching the sky darken outside.
My phone was quiet. Jake did not call again.