The patient room on the seventh floor of the private hospital was eerily still, wrapped in that unnatural quiet only medical buildings seem to possess late in the afternoon. Outside the narrow window, the city moved on—cars honked, people rushed, lives continued—but inside, time felt suspended. Machines hummed softly, and a heart monitor blinked with rhythmic patience. Harley lay on the bed, her throat wrapped in fresh bandages, her body weak and heavy after thyroid surgery. Her eyelids fluttered as the anesthesia slowly released its grip. Pain throbbed faintly beneath the medication, but what she felt most was exhaustion—a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that had followed her for years.
When her vision finally focused, the first thing she saw was her husband Mark standing beside the bed, his expensive coat draped over his arm, his face composed and distant. In his hands was a thick stack of documents, edges crisp, as if freshly printed. He noticed her eyes open and did not smile. “You’re awake?” he said flatly. “Good. Then we won’t waste time. Sign this.” Harley blinked again, confused, her throat dry and sore. She tried to speak, but the sound came out hoarse and broken. “What… what is that?” Mark slid the papers onto the small table attached to her bed, the pages rustling loudly in the silence. “Divorce papers,” he replied, as casually as if he were handing her a grocery list. “Everything’s filled out. You just need to sign.
It’s better this way.” For a moment, Harley wondered if she was still under the influence of anesthesia, if this was some cruel hallucination her mind had conjured in its weakened state. She stared at him, searching his face for a hint of concern, guilt, or hesitation. There was none. Only impatience.
