The voice of Arnav stunned me.
I glanced at the screen. It was his number.
And below it, the label: “My Love.”

“Why aren’t you answering? Did something happen?”

His usually composed voice now held panic—something rare from him.

I clenched the phone, trying to keep my voice steady:

“Arnav, this is the emergency unit.”

Before I could finish the sentence, I hung up.

The woman in the wheelchair didn’t hear any of that. Her face was deathly pale, nearly unconscious.
She was bleeding internally—her condition critical.
She needed emergency surgery.

And I was the only surgeon on duty.

2

Arnav arrived in just ten minutes.
I had already changed into surgical scrubs and was standing outside the OR waiting.

“How is she?”
His voice was laced with panic, but above all, concern.

I handed him the consent form:

“Ananya Sharma, 23. Ectopic pregnancy with severe bleeding. We’ll have to remove her left fallopian tube. Please sign here.”

Arnav froze, clearly not expecting me to be so composed.

But he soon lowered his head and signed next to Ananya Sharma.

As I turned to leave, he grabbed my wrist.

“Riya…”

His eyes were filled with fear and anxiety, like tiny needles piercing my heart.

“What? Don’t trust me?”

“It’s just a signature. You can still transfer her elsewhere if you want.”

I spoke coldly, distantly, like a stranger.

The proud, polished man now looked nothing like himself.
His eyes were red. He pleaded softly:

“Riya, this is all my fault.”
“She’s innocent.”

I gave a bitter smile, then walked into the OR.

3

Ananya lay quietly on the table.
Even under anesthesia, she was heartbreakingly beautiful—flawless features, youthful curves.

How many times had my husband lost himself in this very body?

Now, I stood at the junction of two identities:
The wife who had been betrayed.
And the doctor who had to save her husband’s lover.

Cruel. Painful. Inescapably real.

Two hours later, I stepped out, exhausted.
Arnav ran up to speak, but I raised a hand to silence him and walked straight to the changing room.

When I came out, he was already waiting in my office.

“She hasn’t woken up yet…”

“The anesthesia’s still active. Give her about twenty minutes.”

Only then did the tension ease from his brow.
His eyes now carried a flicker of regret.

“Riya, I’m sorry. I couldn’t control my feelings.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Please… don’t hurt her.”

4

My mentor once said I was born to be a doctor—because I could control my emotions, stay unaffected, and remain detached.
But I fell for a man colder than even I was.

In three years of marriage, Arnav treated me… adequately.
Flowers on holidays. Gifts on birthdays. Never stingy with money.
He was respectful to my parents.

Everyone envied me for having a rich, handsome husband.
But no one knew how cold he really was.

We lived like guests in our own home. No fights. No passion.
He always addressed me by name.
Even in bed, he never once called me “wife.”

He was like a dead lake—still, lifeless, frozen.

Until today, when I heard him call another woman “sweetheart.”

That’s when I realized:
He could be scared.
He could be weak.
He could plead.

He could beg me to save the woman he really loved.

And I, who saved her, became the villain—the cruel woman capable of hurting the man I married.

It was absurd. And heartbreaking.

I looked out the window. Dawn was breaking.

“Arnav,” I said coldly, “let’s get divorced.”

5

Arnav lowered his head and sighed.

“Riya… It wasn’t what you think.”

“I know,” I replied bitterly. “It was for your grandmother, right?”

Arnav flinched.

With his personality, had he truly loved someone else, he would’ve filed for divorce long ago.
But he kept Ananya a secret—because he was afraid of upsetting his grandmother.

She was in the final stage of cancer. No one knew how long she had left.
I was the daughter-in-law she loved the most.
Arnav didn’t dare hurt her.

I looked him in the eye:

“So, I’ll keep pretending to be your wife until she passes. Then I’ll step aside for your true love, right?”

“Arnav, I’ll play the dutiful daughter-in-law. I’ll even bless your love story. Isn’t that what you want?”

His face darkened.

“Riya, that’s not—”

Just then, the door creaked open. A nurse peeked in.

“Dr. Riya, your patient keeps calling out for someone. She’s asking for her family.”

Arnav stood immediately and rushed out, leaving a cold wind in his place.

I looked at the clock and followed.

In the recovery room, the attending physician was already there.
I handed over the case details and glanced at Ananya.

She had regained consciousness—fragile, weak.

Arnav held her hand tightly, his gaze filled with overwhelming tenderness.

6

“It hurts so much. It’s all your fault.”
“I know, it’s all my fault. Please don’t be angry.”
“You’re not allowed to touch me again, ever!”
“Okay, okay. Just rest. When you’re better, you can hit me however you want.”

If I hadn’t seen it myself, I never would’ve believed Arnav could be like that.

The usually stoic CEO, now babying a girl like she was his whole world.

From three feet away, I watched them.
A cold, detached man who poured all his warmth into one woman—it was the kind of romance that made you want to gag.

After handing off the shift, I turned and left.

Arnav glanced at me once, but didn’t follow.

Only when I stepped outside the hospital gates did I feel my body relax.
For a brief moment, I wasn’t a doctor—I was just myself.

And sadness came crashing in like a flood.
My mind was heavy, but my steps felt light.

“Riya, you’re off duty?”

“Heard you had emergency surgery last night—bad luck!”

“Wait, why do you look so pale?”

I turned. It was Dr. Neeraj, my senior.

And the next moment, the world spun—I collapsed on the ground.

My ears buzzed, and the sounds around me faded into chaos.

Somewhere in the blur, I heard him yelling:

“Call the ER, now!”
“We need help, quickly!”
“Riya, stay with me!”

7

When I woke up, I was in the ICU.

A nurse called Neeraj.

“You had a severe viral infection and overworked yourself. We told you to rest.”
“Middle of the night emergency surgery? Do you think myocarditis is a joke?”
“Good thing you’re a cardiologist and we caught it in time. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here anymore.”

Typical Neeraj—sharp-tongued as always.

“Thank you… senior,” I whispered.

He rolled his eyes.

“What are you thanking me for?”

Suddenly, tears streamed down my face—hot, unstoppable.

Betrayal. The fear of dying. The pain… it all broke me.

Neeraj fell silent.
His usually sarcastic gaze turned serious and unfamiliar.

“Stop crying. Your blood pressure’s already 150.”
“You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

8

Two days later, I was transferred to a private recovery room.
Neeraj had arranged everything so I could rest.

When Arnav came to visit, his face was full of guilt.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were this sick.”
“It was careless of me. Thankfully, you’re alright…”

I no longer had anything to say.

In front of me was a man filled with regret—but never once had he shown genuine concern.

His heart was no longer here.
Or maybe… it never was.

“Arnav,” I said, “please let me go.”
“I’ll keep this from your grandmother. I’ll play along until she passes. But I want a divorce.”

“Riya…”

He tried to speak.

“Arnav, you reap what you sow.”
“While I still have the strength to end this gracefully, don’t force me to burn it all down.”

Arnav froze, then slowly nodded.

After I was discharged, I began thinking about the future.
What would life after divorce look like?

Fortunately, no one else at the hospital had met Arnav—except Neeraj.
Even after the divorce, no one would know what happened.

I wasn’t abandoned—I was the one choosing to walk away.

Suddenly, the door creaked open.
I thought it was the nurse—but it was Ananya.

She stood at the door in a patient’s gown, eyes red, gripping the frame like a wounded animal.

Then she whispered, a dagger straight to my heart:

“Please… give Arnav back to me.”
“I can’t live without him.”