That night, I came down with a high fever.

I was barely conscious—my mind drifting between dreams and delirium. For a moment, I thought it was still three years ago. Instinctively, I called Howard for help.

But instead of his voice, I heard Phoebe's syrupy tone on the other end. "Who's calling you at this hour, Howie?"

It was late, yet the two of them were still together. The fog in my head cleared just enough for me to hang up the phone immediately.

Howard didn't come home until the middle of the night. By then, the ibuprofen I'd taken had already kicked in.

He burst through the door, looking like he'd rushed over straight from somewhere else. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and love bites littered his neck.

It had been four whole hours since I had called him for help. He looked exhausted, but for the first time, he softened his tone and tried to explain himself. He said, "I was busy at work."

I gently patted his hand and told him it was fine.

He froze, clearly caught off guard. In the past, I would've gone off on him, asked him why he was so late, and whined about how sick I felt and how much it hurt to burn up like this.

He probably had a whole speech prepared and was ready to chastise me, but I'd thrown him off with my calm response. After a long pause, he let out a cold chuckle.

"It would've been nice if you'd behaved like this sooner. Looks like the treatment at the psychiatric facility worked.

"Pheebs is still waiting in the car. She rushed over the second she heard you were sick. Even a director like her can find time to care about you; you should take a page from her book."

I stayed quiet and just followed him to the garage.

On the way there, he kept rambling about the past few years—how the deal with Equinox Trading Co. fell through and how it was somehow my fault for not handing things off to Phoebe properly.

He also complained that the company's performance had declined because my stay at the psychiatric facility had distracted him. Somehow, everything circled back to Phoebe.

"Good thing she stayed by my side. If you hadn't been so immature, Yvette, I wouldn't have had to go through all these hardships. And now I still have to take you to the hospital."

I listened to him complain, and despite myself, a wave of resentment began to rise. I looked up at him and asked, "So, she gets the master bedroom? She's the lady of the house now, isn't she?"

He abruptly snapped. He grabbed my wrist and yelled at me, "You went into my room? So what if Pheebs is staying here?

"She had nowhere else to go when she came back. What? Can't you even share a room? Why are you so petty?

"I'm warning you: When we see Pheebs, don't you dare say anything stupid, or I'll send you right back to the psychiatric facility!"

I had already given her my job and my room, and now it seemed like I was about to lose my husband to her, too. He hadn't changed at all. This wasn't the first time he'd threatened to send me back.

Phoebe must've heard us arguing because she got out of the car and hurried over. She slipped her arm around Howard's and began soothing him in a low, gentle voice.

As I watched her fuss over him while I stood like a ghost, I couldn't help but think she looked more like his wife than I ever did. I felt as if my heart was being pierced by a thousand needles watching them.

Phoebe turned to me and said sweetly, "Yvette, I don't mean to criticize you, but you're just a housewife now. You don't have a job.

"You rely on Howie for everything. You shouldn't make things harder for him just because you don't like me."

Howard shook off my hand violently, and I lost my footing, stumbling a few steps. Years of medication and abuse had left my muscles weak, and with a fever ravaging my body, I couldn't stay upright anymore. I proceeded to collapse on the ground.

Howard barked something else at me, but my ears were ringing, and I couldn't even make out what he said.

When I came to, I was already in a hospital bed with an IV drip in my arm. I could hear Howard and Phoebe talking about my condition from behind the curtain. I couldn't see them, but I could tell it was them by their voices.

Howard sounded confused. "Wasn't she supposed to be resting in the psychiatric facility? How did she end up with muscle atrophy and all these needle marks?"

Phoebe let out a soft laugh, her voice sugary as always. "It's just a disease caused by idleness, Howie. Even your secretary said so. She was never actually ill. We faked her medication certificate, remember?

"My brother was her attending physician. I had a word with him before she was admitted. All she did every day was lie around and rest. It was no wonder she ended up like that.

"She's not like you, Howie; you've been working so hard you've practically lost weight."

Howard sounded like the pieces were finally clicking for him. "So that's what it was... Yvette was always picking on you. You didn't deserve any of that, Pheebs."

Then, he chuckled. "Pheebs, don't you think this room looks like your typical psychiatric facility ward?"

Right after he said that, I heard the unmistakable sound of kissing—wet and loud—followed by the rustle of clothes. It was unbearably loud.

I felt as if I was thrown back to those days when he came for his scheduled visits. Every time he came to see me, I was forced into what they called "psychological intervention therapy."

Now that I think about it, it must have been Phoebe who told the doctor what to do. Who would've guessed that the doctor who pumped sedatives into my veins and zapped me with electroconvulsive therapy... was her brother?

Each day at the psychiatric facility felt like torture. I used to both dread and long for Howard's visits. I kept hoping he'd finally take me home, but I also feared the treatments that would come once he arrived.

Every time I was dragged in for treatment, the bed next to mine was always hidden behind the same sterile white curtain. I used to wonder about the sounds I heard from behind it—the sickening wet noises, the strange gasps and moans. Now I knew exactly what they were.

I couldn't take it anymore. I forced myself up and yanked the curtain aside.

The two of them jumped and hurriedly pulled apart, clearly not expecting me to be awake. Phoebe clung to Howard's sleeve and started sobbing, "Howie… was Yvette always like this? She's scaring me…"

Howard hastily buttoned his shirt, his face dark with anger. "What the hell is your problem, Yvette? Apologize to Pheebs right now!"

This person, who was supposed to be the one I could trust, turned against me just because I got in the way of his childhood sweetheart. He forged my medical history and stripped me of my director position to make room for her.

Then, he personally locked me up in a hell disguised as a recovery center. He stood by while I was drugged and shocked like an animal and still had the nerve to do this with her beside my hospital bed.

Phoebe couldn't stand it anymore; she pouted and tugged on his arm. "Yvette used to be the undisputed queen of our company. There's no way she's going to apologize to me."

Howard's face congealed. His company's success was almost entirely due to me, and he hated anyone saying he'd only gotten back on his feet because of a woman. Phoebe's words had definitely struck a nerve.

Howard's eyes locked onto mine. He squeezed Phoebe's hand like he'd just made up his mind.

"Stop being difficult, Yvette. I'm giving you one last chance—get down on your knees and apologize to Phoebe right now!

"I can tell you're not in the right state of mind. If you refuse to apologize, I'll have you sent back to the psychiatric facility immediately!"

He bit out those last few words with venom like he was a beast gnawing on a bone. All this time, he'd been draining me of everything I had—my work, my pride, my sanity. And now that I was no longer useful, he was ready to toss me aside.

I slowly reached for the IV needle and pulled it out. As I looked at his shirt—half-buttoned and crooked—I felt like some kind of circus monkey being forced to perform.

I avoided his gaze and uttered, "Howard, let's get a divorce."