Two weeks had passed since the surgery, and every day felt like a delicate dance of orchestrating the inevitable revelation. The corridors of the Vance Institute echoed the soft footsteps of nurses, the muted beeps of machines, and the murmur of conversations punctuated by the soft sighs of patients. Chloe’s recovery room was a secluded sanctuary, ensuring her isolation until the grand unveiling.
Richard had been unusually distant, claiming long work hours and unexpected travel. His absence was a hollow solace, a reminder of the chasm that had silently grown between us. He was unaware of the storm brewing in the confines of my practice, oblivious to the inevitable confrontation that lay ahead.
Chloe’s progression through recovery was, medically speaking, flawless. Her swelling reduced, the bruises faded, and her skin settled into the new contours shaped by my hands. In those quiet moments when I entered her room for post-op checks, her unawareness felt like both a dagger and a shield. Her blind trust in me, her eagerness to see the new self I had crafted, mirrored the vulnerability I had once felt in my marriage.
