The Moment Her Heart Died

Jeanne fought through the stabbing pain in her leg, forcing herself to answer the voice that had called her name. "Darren… I'm here…"

But no one replied.

She jerked her eyes open. Blood blurred her vision, painting the world in red. The car interior was empty—completely still. She was alone. The man who had just shouted her name hadn't saved her.

As her consciousness sank, Jeanne slipped into a dream. She dreamed of that year when Darren had chased her all the way to Los Cielos.

Her racing club had refused to release her from her contract, and he—eyes bloodshot—had challenged them to a race. If he won, he would take her away. He had just earned his professional racing license for her at the time, and that was the first time he had ever driven a race car. Yet he dared to take on the twisting mountain road.

Jeanne had sat in the passenger seat, guiding him through the turns, but disaster struck anyway. He misjudged a drift; the car skidded, broke through the guardrail, and tumbled down the cliff.

In the chaos, he had thrown himself over her, shielding her with his body. Blood poured from his head, but he never loosened his grip. At the last moment, he had summoned the last of his strength to lift her onto a jagged outcrop of rock above the wreck. His voice had been hoarse as he shouted, "Hold on tight!"

Then, the car's twisted frame dragged him down, half his body dangling off the edge, seconds away from falling to his death.

When rescuers finally pulled them up, he had lain weakly in her arms, his mind foggy, yet still worried about her future. "Jeanne… they only want you to make money. I just want you safe… No matter how dangerous it gets, I'll protect you. Come with me, okay?"

She had been about to say yes—until the image faded to black and she was yanked back to the present.

This time, he hadn't protected her.

…

Jeanne's lashes trembled as she opened her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek and soaked into the pillow. The man at her bedside immediately straightened up, eyes bright. "Jeanne, you're awake!"

The nurse, changing her bandages, smiled, too. "Finally! Dr. Walsh has been sitting here for a whole day and night. His eyes are bloodshot. Makes me wish I were his sister just to get that kind of care."

Still dazed, Jeanne blinked. "His sister?"

"Yeah! Aren't you Dr. Walsh's sister?" The nurse chatted as she packed up her supplies. "His wife, Alyssa, came by this morning to see you—poor thing cried her eyes out and told me to call her the moment you woke up."

A sharp crack split the air. Darren's glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. The nurse flinched and went silent, scurrying away to fetch the janitor.

The noise snapped Jeanne completely awake. Fragments of memory crashed back into place—the sight of Darren walking away with Alyssa in his arms, her own desperate hand reaching out for help, and the hollow despair when he turned away.

She looked up at him. Panic flickered in his eyes, impossible to hide. Her lips curved faintly, though there was no warmth in her voice. "Explain."

Darren froze for a second before grabbing her hand, words tumbling out in a rush. "They've got it all wrong! It's a misunderstanding. They must've seen us together and assumed you were my sister—"

"Alright. I believe you." Jeanne cut him off, her tone flat and emotionless, causing Darren's following words to die in his throat.

'No. This isn't right. Jeanne isn't supposed to be like this. She should be crying, screaming, demanding to know why I saved Alyssa first. She should be angry that I let others mistake our relationship. But she isn't—she was calm. Too calm. Like still water after death,' Darren thought.

Fear crawled up Darren's spine. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Jeanne had already closed her eyes. "I'm tired."

Guilt clawed at him, leaving nowhere to hide. "Jeanne, it's my fault. I shouldn't have let Alyssa drive. I already scolded her. If you're angry, hit me, yell at me—just don't hold it in."

Jeanne pulled her hand from his grasp. When she opened her eyes again, all light had vanished from them. "I really am tired."

'Something's terribly wrong.' Panic flooded Darren's chest, a black hole of loss threatening to swallow him whole. But before he could find the words for an apology, the attending doctor came in to check on Jeanne, calling him out of the room.

The moment Darren turned away, Jeanne's eyes reddened. But no matter how much it hurt, not a single tear would fall. Her heart had already died the instant he walked out that door.

She wiped the dryness from her eyes and only wanted to sleep—to rest, and then leave this man behind for good. But just as she drifted off, noise from the next bed cut through the quiet.

"Stop crying!" a woman scolded sharply. "The racer next to you just broke her leg—she can't compete ever again. She's not crying, and here you are, wailing over a sprained ankle?!"

"I don't want my leg broken! I don't want to!"

The boy's cries filled the ward, piercing through the walls—and into Jeanne's ears.

'Broken leg?!'

A deafening roar went off inside her head, like something had exploded.

The End of the Race

Jeanne's hand flew instinctively to her leg, her fingertips brushing over the hard surface of the cast. 'My leg's still here.'

But the next second, her heart clenched tight. When she pressed down—softly at first, then harder—there was nothing. No feeling. Her leg lay there like a foreign piece of machinery bolted onto her body.

"No… No, it can't be…" Her voice trembled as she braced against the sheets, trying to sit up. The moment she lifted herself half a foot, her right leg gave way, and she crashed heavily to the floor.

Just then, Darren's anxious voice came from outside the door. "Zach, are you sure there's no other way? She's a racer—"

"That depends on her recovery," the doctor, who was called Zach, replied, his tone weary. "But I wouldn't advise it. With her kind of injury, if she pushes herself too soon, a second trauma could be irreversible."

A brief silence fell before Darren's voice came again, low and hoarse. "Alright. Thank you."

Each word hit like a hammer, shattering Jeanne's last bit of hope. She had been born for racing. From the moment she first touched a steering wheel, she had known her life was bound to the roar of an engine. And now someone was telling her she would never race again.

The thought was worse than death.

When Darren pushed open the door, he found her sprawled on the floor. He rushed forward to help, but froze when he saw her tear-streaked face. "You heard everything?"

Jeanne didn't look at him. She shook off his hand and asked, her voice trembling, "Where's Alyssa Carver?"

His eyes flickered—like he was afraid she might do something reckless—and he rushed to explain. "Alyssa's young, she didn't know any better. She drove without a license, and I've already scolded her for it. She's hurt too, Jeanne. Please, don't be mad at her anymore, okay?"

Jeanne's head snapped up, her eyes bloodshot. So he knew. He knew Alyssa didn't have a license and still let her drive. Still signed her up for a race.

This was the fourth time. Four crashes. Four hospital stays. And every time, Alyssa hadn't even offered a proper apology.

A bitter laugh rose in Jeanne's throat, but the tears came faster than she could hold them back, spilling down her face in heavy drops. Even now, he was still protecting her.

"What about me?" Jeanne's voice was barely a whisper. "If she's not to blame, then who is? Me? Is it my fault my leg might never stand again? Because it's not her leg that's broken, Darren—it's mine! And you're still defending her!"

Darren's brow furrowed, irritation creeping into his tone. "Jeanne, I told you she didn't mean it. Why can't you just let it go?"

He hesitated, then added something that sliced straight through her chest. "Besides, if you hadn't grabbed the wheel, maybe none of this would've happened. Did you ever think about that?"

The words hit colder than the blizzard in the North Pole. Jeanne's whole body went numb, and for a heartbeat, she couldn't breathe. Then she smiled—an empty, broken smile that hurt to look at.

Whenever Alyssa was involved, she was always the one in the wrong.

Her heart, already dead, felt as if it had been pried open again only to be crushed into dust. She closed her eyes, her voice flat and lifeless. "I'm tired. Leave."

When Darren saw the lifeless gray on her face, his chest tightened in panic. He finally realized how cruel his words had been. He opened his mouth to apologize, but couldn't form a single word. In the end, he turned and left, his steps unsteady.

For the next three days, Darren barely left her side. He fed her bitter medicine with his own hands, cooked all her favorite dishes, and even set up a folding bed beside hers, waking at every sound.

But Jeanne was like a hollow puppet—opening her mouth when he offered a spoon, standing when he helped her up, never speaking, never looking at him, until the day he said the words that broke the silence. "I'm going to hold a fake wedding with Alyssa."

Jeanne finally reacted. "Alright. I'll be there." Her voice was calm, detached.

Darren's stomach dropped. He had imagined tears, anger, demands for answers—but not this emptiness. Panic edged his words. "Jeanne, listen. The Fosters have their eyes on Alyssa. They're trying to force her into marriage.

"I'm her brother—I can't just watch her walk into that trap. So I'm going to announce our divorce publicly, then marry her in name only. But you have to trust me—it's all fake. The divorce, the wedding. Once the issue is resolved, everything will go back to the way it was."

Jeanne's lips curved, and this time she laughed—not in bitterness, not in irony, but in pure, unshackled relief—Theo was finally making his move.

Darren had called the Fosters a den of monsters. But to Jeanne, they were the only lifeline left that could pull her out of the cage she'd been trapped in.

The Marriage That Never Was

When Darren saw her smile, the darkness clouding his face instantly lifted. "Jeanne, don't worry. You're the only one I love. I shouldn't have spoken so harshly that day. Whatever you want, just tell me—I'll do it. Just… don't stay mad at me anymore, okay?" He leaned closer, his voice soft and pleading, like he might cry.

In the past, Jeanne would've melted at that tone, her anger dissolving under his coaxing. But now, the man before her felt like a stranger. Inside, she was still—cold and still, like ice sealed over deep water.

Jeanne looked at the desperation in his eyes and curved her lips faintly. "Alright. Have Alyssa marry someone else then."

The smile froze on Darren's face. His mouth twitched for a long time before he forced a strained grin. "Jeanne, don't joke like that." He reached out to touch her face, but she turned her head away. "She's my sister. You're really jealous of that? Pick another request, please. Anything else—you name it, and I'll do it."

Jeanne's smile widened. She knew it—whenever Alyssa was involved, all his promises turned to ash. They looked strong on the surface, but one touch and they fell apart. "I was joking," she replied coolly, the smile fading. "Do whatever you want. You don't need to tell me about it."

Seeing that she was no longer clinging to the topic, Darren sighed in relief. His usual easy grin returned as he patted her head. "I knew you'd understand. I'll go take care of a few things—get some rest, alright?"

As soon as his footsteps disappeared down the corridor, the last trace of expression drained from Jeanne's face. So that was why he had stayed by her side these past few days—why he'd been so attentive and gentle. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't love. He had only been afraid she'd cause trouble before he could clear the way for Alyssa.

A hollow laugh slipped past her lips. She reached under the pillow, pulled out her phone, and called her good friend. "Amber, did you finish drafting my divorce papers?"

Silence filled the line—long enough that Jeanne thought the signal had dropped—before Amber's strained voice came through. "Jeanne… you and Darren were never married. The marriage certificate you sent me—it's fake."

Jeanne froze. A faint ringing filled her ears. Her fingers tightened around the phone, trembling. "What… did you just say?"

"It's true," Amber answered softly, cautious, almost apologetic. "I asked someone to check. You're listed as single. Darren's divorced. His ex-wife is Alyssa—they finalized it two months ago. The seal on your marriage certificate was forged. The document was… a replica, the kind sold in cheap stationery shops. You and Darren were never legally married." Amber's voice broke on the last few words.

Jeanne went numb. That wedding—so grand that the whole city had envied her—had been nothing but a lie from the very start.

Her hands shook as she opened the screenshot Amber sent. The pale glow from the screen lit her equally pale face. Line after line of cold text pierced her eyes like poisoned needles, each one stabbing deeper until they blurred with pain.

Her heart, shattered so many times before, had only just been patched together—and now, with one blow, it was pulverized to dust. She realized, with sick horror, that she had been a mistress for ten years.

Ten whole years.

From 17 to 27—the brightest years of her life, all wasted on a man who had never truly made her his. How ridiculous.

The searing pain in her legs mixed with the suffocating weight in her chest until she couldn't hold herself together any longer. The hospital room filled with her sobs—raw, broken, tearing at the air until even the people in the next bed wiped their eyes.

…

At last, she dragged herself out of bed, fury burning through her tears. Grabbing the crutch beside her, she hobbled toward Darren's office, every step heavier than the last.

When Darren saw her at the door, his face lit up in surprise. Then, noticing her trembling leg and ghostly pallor, he frowned and rushed toward her, concern softening his voice. "Jeanne, what are you doing up? Doesn't your leg hurt?"

He reached out to steady her, but she slapped his hand away and thrust the phone toward him. Her eyes were glassy, full of grief. "Darren Walsh, I regret ever meeting you."

The words made him flinch. However, when he glanced at the phone screen, all the color drained from his face. He snatched it up, scrolling rapidly through the messages. His expression darkened with every swipe until he stopped on the chat where Jeanne had told Amber she wanted a divorce.

"You want a divorce?" His head jerked up, the panic in his eyes twisting into something darker. "You're leaving me?"

Jeanne's tears fell, streaking her cheeks with anger. "Yes! You terrify me, Darren. I want nothing to do with you ever again!"

She snatched her phone back and, with shaking fingers, dialed Theo's number. But before the call could connect, Darren seized the phone and smashed it to the ground. The sharp crack of breaking glass split the air.

Jeanne looked up, stunned, meeting Darren's bloodshot eyes. The tenderness that once lived there was gone, replaced by something wild and possessive. His voice was cold and feral. "You're not leaving me."

A shudder ran through her body, but she still turned to go. She managed only two steps before a sharp sting pierced the back of her neck. Her vision went dark—and everything vanished.