The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

melled of anti

egree burn on my shoulder throbbed in a violent

mos of bone brot

he weary. I told myself that maybe-just maybe-if I played the part of the

door to the

crack

walk in

ting on the e

n of pillows, looking less like a patie

injury she sported was a microscopic scratch on he

held a

against his own lip with a tenderness that ma

rmured. "You

lake," she whimpered.

it," he promised.

d, leaning into his hand. "I th

r let that ha

was thick

ne. It was the sound

ng. Ariana was a bystander. She got hurt. Blake, then ju

become a trauma surgeon. Not

saved, was just him paying penance to the

h my hip, intruding on the

look

rrowed when

his voice instantly dropping the

I said, lifting the ther

a hand di

down but clear soup. Th

ck to Ariana

on the side table

tomorrow," I said, forcing the conversation t

ng the spoon down w

She's traumatized. She j

lost my arm,"

sling with clin

and a second-degree burn.

d that

ug

was the shield he forced me to carry so he didn't

Blake continued. "Something to give he

d pit form i

re you

at on the Charity

't a qu

rder from t

dget," I argued, my voice rising. "It requi

ice trembling on cue. "I understand what it's

Blake with wid

elp, Blake. Like

mel

l in his spine

tone final. "Resign the seat tomo

ified," I said,

tion," he snapped. "Tha

na s

mug thing, hidden

he whispered. "You al

had spent four hours simmering it,

the paperwo

lked

t go to

a cheap plastic chair an

five p

seat to

re: