He Exiled Me for Five Years to Make Room for His Mistress Chapter 05

He Exiled Me for Five Years to Make Room for His Mistress Chapter 05

Three months later, I had lost so much weight I barely recognized myself.

The humid air of a small city in the South clung to my skin. The studio I rented was on the sixth floor of an old walk-up building.

Every time I climbed the stairs, I had to brace one hand against the wall and stop to catch my breath.

A mirror hung on the back of the door. The person staring back at me had messy short hair, sharp cheekbones, and dark bruised shadows under her eyes.

I didn’t recognize her anymore.

My landlady was kind. When she saw me taking freelance translation jobs every day, she would sometimes bring over a bowl of soup.

“Sweetheart, don’t work yourself into the ground,” she said.

I thanked her, then went back to typing at my computer.

One sleeping pill became two. Later, I needed three just to force myself into a few hours of sleep.

In my dreams, I was always back in that high-desert wind, the sand cutting against my face until it hurt.

When I woke up, my pillow was wet.

That afternoon, after finishing a contract translation, I was so exhausted that I collapsed over my desk.

My phone buzzed.

It was an Instagram post from a former coworker. Ethan and Emily had finally held their wedding ceremony.

I tapped it open. It was a photo dump.

In the center photo, Ethan wore a black suit, and Emily wore a white wedding dress. They were kissing in front of a church.

The caption read, [Congratulations! They’re a gorgeous couple, and they were made for each other!]

The likes and comments were endless.

[They finally got married! This was five years in the making!]

[Emily is so beautiful! Ethan looks amazing!]

[This wedding is a dream. I’m so jealous!]

I scrolled down.

Then I saw one comment.

[Thank God Claire Harper, that walking curse, is gone. She would’ve brought bad luck to the whole wedding.]

I turned off my phone.

I opened the drawer. The white pill bottle was still there.

I poured out ten pills and swallowed them with cold water.

I hoped I would sleep longer this time.

It didn’t matter if I never woke up.

When I opened my eyes again, all I saw was a white ceiling.

The sharp smell of disinfectant hit me.

I moved my fingers and felt an IV needle taped to my hand.

“You’re awake?”

A nurse walked over.

“What happened? Why did you take that many sleeping pills at once?”

I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry to make a sound.

She handed me a cup of water.

“Your landlady found you. She said you hadn’t come out for two days, and when you didn’t answer the door, she used her spare key.”

I took two sips of water and asked hoarsely, “How long was I asleep?”

“Two days.”

The nurse adjusted my IV line.

“The police will be here soon to ask you a few questions.”

I closed my eyes.

Two police officers came, one older and one younger.

“Claire Harper, twenty-eight, currently unemployed?”

The older officer flipped through his notes.

“Yes.”

“Why did you take an overdose of sleeping pills?”

“I took the wrong amount.”

“The wrong amount?”

The younger officer frowned.

“The bottle was missing more than a dozen pills, and you’re saying that was an accident?”

I stared at the ceiling.

“It was an accident.”

The two officers exchanged a look.

The older one closed his notebook.

“We’re going to speak with your doctor. If you need help, you need to tell us the truth.”

“I don’t need help,” I said.

They left.

That afternoon, the doctor came in.

“Your vitals and lab work are stable, but psychiatry is recommending an evaluation.”

He adjusted his glasses.

“You’re showing signs of mild depression.”

“I know.”

“Would you consider staying for inpatient observation for a few days?”

“No.”

I sat up.

“I want to be discharged.”

The discharge process dragged on for a long time.

The charge nurse insisted that I sign a waiver before leaving.

My hand shook badly as I signed my name.

“Ms. Harper.”

She looked at me.

“You’re still young. This doesn’t have to be the end.”

I didn’t say anything.

I took the paperwork and walked out. At the end of the hallway, I saw a woman.

She was sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket over her knees, her head lowered as she read.

Her face looked thin in profile, but her eyes were gentle.

As I passed her, she looked up at me.

“Are you here for treatment too?” she asked.

I stopped.

“Yeah.”

She smiled.

“I’ve been here for half a year. You’re a new face.”

She closed her book. The cover was The Road.

“My name is Wendy Lewis,” she said. “I used to teach piano.”

I saw the empty right pant leg beneath her blanket and didn’t dare ask.

She didn’t mind. She kept talking.

“Two years ago, I was in a car accident. I lost my leg. My husband ran off with another woman, and I lost my job too.”

She said it calmly, as if she were talking about someone else’s life.

“At my lowest, I wanted to die too.”

She tapped the book.

“Then I read this. I read about someone losing almost his whole world and still choosing to keep going, and I thought, Why don’t I get to live too?”

She shifted slightly to make room beside her.

“Want to sit for a while?”

I sat down.

Sunlight streamed through the window and fell across the blanket over her knees.

“What about you?” she asked. “What happened?”

I stayed silent for a long time.

So long that she probably thought I would never answer.

“I was deceived for five years,” I said.

“I lost my career, my love, and my family. I even drove my father to his death.”

She listened quietly.

“Now they’re married, and they’re happy.”

I gave a small laugh.

“And I don’t even have a place to live.”

Wendy nodded.

“That does sound pretty awful.”

She didn’t tell me to be strong.

She didn’t say everything would be fine.

She only asked, “So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

I said, “Maybe I’ll find somewhere and disappear.”

“Disappearing is easy.”

She looked out the window.

“But you’re not at peace with it, are you?”

I froze.

“If you were, you wouldn’t still be alive.”

She said, “Your landlady told me that when you were unconscious, you kept clutching your phone. I’m guessing it had the numbers of the people you hate.”

I said nothing.

She patted the back of my hand.

“Hatred isn’t wrong. If they deserve it, then hate them. But hatred shouldn’t make you disappear. It should make them pay.”

“What can I possibly do?”

I murmured, “I have nothing left.”

“You’re alive,” she said.

“As long as you’re alive, you still have a chance to turn this around.”