Page 6 of Medical Malpractice

His mouth opened, yet nothing came out. Just a few stilted syllables before he managed to choke out, “Gabriella. Babe. I fucking love you. Don’t do this to us.”

Us? He destroyed us.

Who is this person? This charlatan who has possessed my husband? He didn’t even try refuting the evidence. He was tried and found guilty—fucking GUILTY.

My emotions were in such turmoil that something inside me snapped.

Collecting a dish in each hand, I proceeded to throw them at his blurring form, which was hard to pinpoint through my tears. The loving dinner I had meticulously cooked for him so it was perfect for his arrival…I couldn’t stand the thought.

The whole tray of homemade pasta—gone. The heavy bowl of salad—broken. Once I began, I couldn’t stop.

He tried to advance, but there was no way I’d ever let him touch me again.

Plates and cutlery were next. Whatever I got my hands on flew out of my grasp and went soaring. I didn’t even aim, really, but from his pained grunts, I thought some managed to land.

“HOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU?”

My senses were muddled, my mind a damn mess. I didn’t even know what I was saying.

I paused, trying to catch my breath. I was hyperventilating, and I didn’t want to pass out again. He would be professionally obligated to care for me, since I now knew he wouldn’t do it out of love or concern for his wife.

With my torso heaving, I asked, “How many women, Nico? The truth.”

“I-I don’t know.”

“FUCKING TRY!”

“I don’t know! They didn’t mean anything. I paid for them.”

“What about this paternity test? You must have had unprotected sex to knock one of them up—”

“At least someone around here can get knocked up.”

There it was. He always did have a fast wit and a waspish tongue. I’d seen him use it countless times, but never had he turned that vicious sting on me.

His face dropped immediately as he processed his own condemning words. Too late. He was far too late.

Am I alive? Is there blood still pumping through my veins? I feel like I am dead. Or maybe I just wish it so.

“The paper said thirteen years,” I said, cutting off a whimper. “That’s how long we’ve been married. When exactly did you get the vasectomy?”

He shook his head, wanting to refute plain logic. No, you treacherous bastard. You owe me this.

“WHEN!?”

“Just before our wedding,” he said. His cruelty was never-ending.

“Why?” I whispered, my speech splintering right alongside my soul. “You saw what those negative tests did to me. You let me think something was wrong with me. You let me hate myself for failing to achieve what I wanted most.”

My arms barred over my stomach on instinct, wanting to protect myself from the deep-seated ache.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I regretted it as soon as it happened. Then the lie became too much, and everything just got away from me.”

I choked, ignoring his utter bullshit and empty excuses. He could have had it reversed, or I would have settled for honesty. Anything would have been better than this.

“Have you always hated me, Nico? Have you always despised me? You must have. Why else would you go for the jugular? Why else would you want to cause maximum damage?”

That was when I saw the real him—raw and ice-cold. Resentment flashed over his face that he didn’t manage to hide in time.