I Faked An Injury To Escape My Abusive Billionaire Husband. But The Er Doctor Just Revealed A Dark Secret About My Husband’s First Wife. How Do I Go Back To That House Now?

The Hospital Performance

It felt like my insides were being churned in a blender. Preston’s personality shift occurred the moment our tires hit the pavement of the hospital parking lot. It was a magical moment that always amazed and disgusted me,.

As soon as the car stopped in front of the emergency room entrance, Preston’s red angry face vanished, replaced by a pale worried expression that was utterly convincing. He leaped out of the car yelling loudly.

“Doctor, nurse, please help my wife quickly.”

His voice trembled dramatically as if he were the most loving husband on the face of the earth. If a film director had been there, Preston would have been offered a role in a soap opera on the spot. Nurses came running with a gurney, responding swiftly to the emergency call from the well-dressed hysterical-looking man.

My body was moved again, this time by the hands of nurses who were far more skilled and humane than my own husband. I was laid on the firm gurney, which felt like heaven compared to the bathroom floor.

“My wife slipped, nurse. She just suddenly fell and lost consciousness. Please do your best. Cost is not an issue,” Preston exclaimed, jogging alongside the gurney as it was pushed inside.

He said the phrase “cost is not an issue” with a slightly raised volume intentionally so everyone there could hear that he was a wealthy responsible man. What a showoff. Even at the hospital, he was still building his image,.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor flickered behind my closed eyelids. It was glaring and dizzying. The squeak of the gurney’s wheels on the linoleum floor sounded loud in my ears, competing with the low hum of other patients and the shouts of medical staff.

I felt the chill of the hospital’s air conditioning on my skin, a stark contrast to the air at home which always felt hot and suffocating. Preston was still holding my hand, chattering on.

“Hold on darling, I’m right here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I’m sure he was only doing it because there were so many eyes on him. If we were alone in some dark alley, he probably would have left me by the side of the road. Upon reaching an examination bay, a green curtain was pulled shut, separating us from the hustle and bustle of the outside world.

“Sir, please wait outside for a moment. We need to examine the patient,” a nurse said firmly.

Preston started to object. “I’m her husband. I need to know her condition.”

But the nurse was just as firm. “Precisely because you’re her husband, you need to remain calm outside so we can work. The doctor will explain everything to you later.”

A Moment of Peace

Finally, with great reluctance and probably a fear of damaging his image by arguing in a hospital, Preston let go of my hand. I heard his footsteps move away followed by the sound of the curtain being opened and closed again. Finally, for the first time today, I could breathe a sigh of relief without having to pretend to hold my breath.

Although my body ached all over and my head was spinning, it felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my chest. I had made it out. I was in neutral territory.

But this was just the beginning. I knew Preston was pacing outside like a caged animal, concocting what lies he would tell the doctor. He would surely say I was clumsy, that the floor was slippery, or that I had a history of low blood pressure,.

Whatever it was, he would make sure he came out clean. But he forgot one thing. In a hospital, a human body can tell a story more honestly than its owner’s mouth.

And my body had many sad stories hidden beneath my clothes just waiting to be read by the right person. Hospitals have a strange distinct smell, a mixture of sharp disinfectant and the lingering scent of despair. For most people this smell is nauseating and makes them want to go home as quickly as possible.

But strangely, as I lay on this narrow bed with its scratchy white sheets, the hospital’s sterile scent smelled like the most expensive perfume in the world. It was the scent of freedom, the scent of a safe distance between me and the high walls of Preston’s house.

I kept my eyes closed but my ears were working overtime taking in the situation around me. The green curtain surrounding me felt like a temporary fortress. Here behind this thin dusty fabric, Preston couldn’t just lash out.

There were nurses bustling about, a patient in the next bay groaning from a toothache, and a doctor on duty making rounds. This crowd was my shield. A young nurse entered my bay.

Her steps were quick, making a soft squeaking sound as her rubber-soled shoes met the floor. She began to wrap a blood pressure cuff around my left arm. I felt the fabric tighten, pressing against the skin that concealed a faint purple bruise from Preston’s grip 3 days ago.

It hurt slightly as the cuff inflated, squeezing my already battered flesh. I held my breath trying not to wince.

“Her pressure is a bit high,” the nurse murmured mostly to herself.

Of course it’s high, I thought. If you had a husband whose hobby was hitting you like a drum, your blood pressure would be through the roof every day too.