But he did not. Days blurred together. Physical therapy sessions that left me crying from pain. Meals I could not taste. Nights staring at the ceiling, replaying that phone call. The lottery ticket information was in my purse, which had been recovered from my car and now sat in the bedside drawer. One hundred and fifty million dollars, and my husband could not even be bothered to visit. On day five, Rachel burst through the door, her face a mask of horror. “Grace. Oh my God. I just got back from my work trip. I saw the news report about the accident. Why didn’t Mark call me?” I could not meet her eyes. “He’s been busy.” “Busy? You’re in the hospital.” “Rachel, please. Not now.”

She sat on the edge of my bed, taking my hand. For a moment, we just sat in silence. Then she pulled out her phone. “I need to show you something. I’m sorry, but you need to see this.” The Instagram post was from three days ago. Mark at Romano’s, the expensive Italian place we could never afford. His arm around a woman, young, maybe twenty-five, with sleek black hair and a red dress that probably cost more than my monthly salary. The caption read, “Celebrating our engagement with my beautiful Sophia. Sometimes you have to clear out the old to make room for the new. #blessed #newbeginnings.” The date stamp showed it had been posted three days after my accident.

“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “We’re still married.” Rachel swiped to another photo. Mark and Sophia at a jewelry store. Another at a beach. Another at what looked like an apartment viewing. All posted in the last week while I had been lying here broken and alone. “Grace, there’s more. People are commenting. Apparently, he’s been telling everyone you two separated months ago, that you were getting divorced, that you were the one who left.” The room spun. “But that’s not true. None of that is true.” “I know, honey. I know.” “He can’t be engaged. We’re still married. That’s bigamy.” Rachel bit her lip. “Unless he’s just calling her his fiancée while planning to divorce you. Grace, has he filed any papers?” I shook my head, then winced at the pain. “Nothing. We were fine. I mean, not fine, but we were married. I was about to tell him.” I stopped. The lottery. Should I tell Rachel? Something held me back. If Mark found out about the money now, he would suddenly reappear, all apologies and explanations. I needed to know the truth about what he had become without the money clouding everything.

“Tell him what?” Rachel asked. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter now.” She stayed for hours, holding my hand while I processed the betrayal. After she left, I asked the nurse to try calling Mark again. This time, a woman answered. “Mark’s phone,” she said, her voice young and bright. “This is Grace Thompson. I need to speak to my husband.” A pause. “Oh, the ex. Mark said you might call. He’s asked me to tell you to communicate only through lawyers from now on. He’ll be filing the divorce papers this week.” “We’re not divorced. We’re not even separated. I’m in the hospital.” “Look, lady, I don’t know what delusions you’re operating under, but Mark’s with me now. He’s been with me for months. Let it go.” The line went dead.

I spent that night staring at the lottery paperwork. One hundred and fifty million dollars. Enough to buy anything, go anywhere, be anyone. And my husband of eight years was leaving me for a woman he had apparently been seeing behind my back, telling people I was already gone while I lay there broken and alone. The next morning, a delivery arrived. A small bouquet of white roses with a card. My hands shook as I opened it. “We’ll talk soon. M.” Mark, or someone else. The handwriting was unfamiliar, printed carefully in block letters. The roses were expensive, not from a grocery store. It did not seem like Mark’s style, but then again, I apparently did not know Mark at all anymore.

I tucked the card into the drawer with the lottery papers. Whatever game was being played, I would need to be smarter this time. No more trusting blindly. No more assuming love meant loyalty. The nurse came in for my afternoon medications. “You’re healing well,” she said. “Another week or two and you’ll be ready for outpatient therapy.” “Good,” I said, managing a small smile. “I have some things to take care of.” She patted my hand. “That’s the spirit. You know, I’ve seen a lot of people come through here. The ones who heal best are the ones who find something to fight for.” After she left, I pulled out the lottery papers again. One hundred and fifty million dollars. Mark thought he was leaving me with nothing. He had no idea that he was the one walking away from everything.

Two weeks had passed since the roses arrived. Two weeks of physical therapy, of learning to walk with crutches, of dodging questions from well-meaning nurses about why my husband never visited. I had gotten good at the polite smile, the “he travels for work” excuse that fooled no one. I was practicing walking down the hallway when Nancy, my favorite day nurse, appeared with an odd expression. “Grace, you have visitors.” “Visitors, plural?” Rachel was in Seattle for a conference, and my parents were still on their anniversary cruise in Europe. “Who?” “Your husband is here with someone.” My blood turned to ice. I gripped my crutches tighter. “I don’t want to see him.” Nancy touched my arm gently. “I can send them away if you want, but honey, sometimes facing things head-on gives us the closure we need.”

I wanted to be weak. I wanted to hide in my room and pretend Mark did not exist. But something in me, maybe the same stubborn streak that had gotten me through those hellish weeks, made me square my shoulders. “Fine. Give me five minutes to get back to my room.” I made it back, settling myself in the chair by the window rather than the bed. I would not face him lying down. I ran my fingers through my hair and straightened my hospital gown. It was ridiculous, caring how I looked for a man who had abandoned me. But I could not help it.

The door opened, and Mark walked in like he owned the place. Three weeks since I had seen him, and he looked different. New haircut, expensive suit I had never seen before, a watch that definitely was not the Timex I had bought him for Christmas. Behind him was Sophia, even more stunning in person than in the photos. Designer jeans, silk blouse, diamonds in her ears that caught the light. “Grace,” Mark said, his tone like he was greeting a casual acquaintance. “You’re looking…” “Like I was hit by a car,” I said, keeping my voice steady and calm. “Yes, that tends to happen when an SUV runs you down.” He had the audacity to laugh. “Still got that sharp tongue, I see. This is Sophia, my fiancée.”

Fiancée. So he was keeping up the lie. Sophia extended her hand, perfectly manicured nails painted deep red. I did not take it. “We’re still married, Mark,” I said quietly. “You can’t have a fiancée when you have a wife.” “Details.” He waved dismissively. “The papers will be filed soon. I’ve been meaning to deal with it, but I’ve been busy. You know how it is. Or actually, you don’t. You’ve never really understood the demands of real business.” “Real business? You mean like the Morrison meeting that night? The one that didn’t actually happen because the office was dark when I drove by.” A flicker of something crossed his face, but he recovered quickly. “Checking up on me. That’s pathetic, even for you, Grace. No wonder you got yourself into an accident.” “Got myself into?” I started, but Sophia interrupted.

“The apartment we looked at has the most amazing view,” she said to Mark, as if I was not there. “The one with the marble countertops. The penthouse.” Mark nodded, smiling at her with more warmth than he had shown me in years. “Already put down the deposit.” “With what money?” I asked. “Last I checked, we could barely make our mortgage payment.” Mark’s smile turned cruel. “Things change when you remove dead weight from your life. Sophia’s family has connections. Real money. Not like your pathetic attempts at budgeting with grocery store coupons.” “You looked so fragile,” Sophia added, her voice sugary sweet, but her eyes cold. “Mark told me you’d really let yourself go these last few years. Stress eating, he said. Though I guess the accident helped with that. You look like you’ve lost weight.”

They were enjoying this. They had come here specifically to hurt me, to show off their new life while I sat there broken. But something else was happening too. Sophia kept looking at me, really looking, and her perfectly composed expression would flicker with something I could not quite read. “You know what’s really pathetic?” Mark continued, warming to his theme. “You probably thought I’d come running when you got hurt, that I’d suddenly realize how much I loved you, like some movie. But real life doesn’t work that way, Grace. In real life, when someone’s dragging you down, you cut them loose.”

“Is that what you told Sophia about me? That I was dragging you down?” “He told me you were emotionally unstable,” Sophia said, but her voice had lost some of its edge. She was staring at me intently now, her brow furrowed. “That you’d had a breakdown. That you’d left months ago to find yourself or some nonsense.” “And you believed him?” I met her gaze directly. “You didn’t think to question why there was no separation agreement? Why all my things were still in our house?” Sophia’s confidence wavered slightly. She turned to Mark. “You said she moved out.” “She was practically gone anyway,” Mark said smoothly. “Working all the time, never home. What’s the difference?” I laughed. Actually laughed. And both of them looked startled. “The difference is that I was working extra shifts to pay for your failed business ventures, your investment opportunities, your can’t-miss schemes that always missed.” “See?” Mark turned to Sophia. “Bitter. Negative.”