Mark read the email twice.
Then a third time.
His face went hot, then cold.
Emily had known.
Not everything, maybe.
But enough.
She had known before the emergency. Before the consent form. Before the blood. Before she turned toward the empty chair and asked them to call him again.
She had still called.
She had still wanted him there.
Or maybe she had wanted to see whether, when everything else was stripped away, he would finally choose correctly.
He had not.
Mark sank onto the edge of the bed.
There was another page behind the email.
This one was in Emily’s handwriting.
I will not fight Madison for my husband. I will not beg Mark to love the life he helped create. If he comes when it matters, we will face the truth together. If he doesn’t, I will already have my answer.
A low sound escaped him.
