Chapter 4

On the third day of hospitalization, the doctor finally relented and agreed to let me be discharged for home recovery.

He said I had a leg bone fracture, abdominal soft tissue contusion, had inhaled quite a bit of smoke, and needed at least another week of observation. But I didn't agree. I just asked quietly: "Can I leave now?"

The doctor looked at me for a long while, then finally closed the medical chart, his tone cooling: "You can sign the papers, but if anything happens after discharge, you bear the consequences."

I said: "Okay."

When Lisa came to pick me up, she was still carrying a stack of freshly printed materials.

Divorce agreement, asset division list, draft complaint.

She placed the items in my lap, her gaze falling on my leg in its plaster cast. She held back once, twice, but finally couldn't help herself: "Emma, have you really thought this through? In your condition—"

"I can't wait." I interrupted her.

My throat, damaged by the smoke, still carried a tearing hoarseness when I spoke.

"The property management just called. They said the fire scene has been logged. Residents can go back to inventory their belongings. If I wait any longer, once they start cleaning up and repairing, my things will be even harder to find."

Lisa frowned: "Are you sure there's anything left?"

I lowered my eyes to the documents on my lap, my fingers slowly tightening.

The fire had started in the kitchen.

That night when the fire was at its worst, the kitchen, living room, and guest bedroom were almost completely destroyed. The walls were scorched black, curtains and furniture burned and curled, even the floorboards were warped from water damage. But the fire department had extinguished it relatively quickly. The master bedroom hadn't been completely burned through—it had only taken in smoke, and most of what was in the cabinets should still be there.

My ID, household registration, property deed.

And the wooden box my mother had left me.

Inside were her belongings, the only things I couldn't bear to damage all these years.

More importantly, all the original documents I needed to file for divorce were in there.

One step later, who knows if I'd still be able to get them back.

"Let's go there first." I raised my head and looked at Lisa. "I'll leave right after I get them."

Lisa was silent for a few seconds, but finally sighed and helped me into the car.

After the car pulled out, she kept her eyes on the road ahead while saying in a low voice: "The spare key is with the property manager. Don't worry, I'll go in with you. I won't let you stay there alone for too long."

I hummed in acknowledgment and turned to look out the window.

The afternoon sky was heavily overcast, the roadside plane trees rustling in the wind. The sunlight clearly wasn't harsh, yet my eyes still felt gritty, as if the smoke from the fire had left a residue that wouldn't dissipate.

That house—I had once spent a long time decorating it.

The color of the sofa, the style of the dining table, the pattern of the curtains, that warm lamp in the living room, even every single dish in the kitchen—I had picked them all out one by one.

I thought it was home.

Later I learned it was just a house I'd funded, worked on, invested my feelings in, only to have someone else move into it in the end.

And now, going back wasn't about "going home."

I just needed to take out what belonged to me before everything completely rotted away.

When the car stopped downstairs, the wound on my leg was already throbbing with dull pain.

Lisa got out first and came around to help me. The stairwell still carried the faint burnt smell left after the fire. A new safety inspection notice from the property management was posted on the wall, abandoned debris bags were piled by the elevator entrance, and the air was damp and oppressive.

I slowly climbed the stairs. Each step felt like my abdomen and back were being torn open again.

Lisa was afraid I couldn't handle it and cursed under her breath: "That bastard better never fall into my hands."

I said nothing.

When we reached the door, she inserted the spare key from the property manager into the lock and turned it gently.

The door opened.

What hit us wasn't just the lingering burnt smell.

There was also a thick, stifling smell of alcohol.

My brow twitched.

Lisa froze too, instinctively reaching out to block me.

The living room was even more devastated than I'd imagined.

Large patches of gray-black smoke stains still marked the walls.

But in this place that had nearly burned me to death, the table was littered with empty bottles, takeout containers, and ashtrays. A woman's shawl and stockings were thrown on the sofa, along with a pair of glaringly bright red-soled high heels.

It was as if someone had turned this post-fire disaster zone into a pleasure den.

I gripped my crutch tighter and tighter, my knuckles turning white.

Lisa's expression also darkened as she muttered: "She really moved in?"

I didn't respond, just propped myself against the wall and walked step by step toward the master bedroom.

The door was ajar.

Inside came the sound of light breathing.

The moment I pushed the door open, I froze completely.

On the master bedroom's large bed, Violet was sleeping wrapped in my comforter.

She was wearing my nightgown, her hair spread across my pillow, and on the nightstand sat half-drunk milk and unopened imported fruit.

She looked exactly like the mistress of this house.

And I stood at the door with my leg in a brace, pale-faced, still carrying the faint smell of disinfectant and smoke, as disheveled as an intruder who'd stumbled in by mistake.

Probably hearing the noise, Violet slowly opened her eyes.

When she saw me, she first looked startled, then raised her hand to touch her flat abdomen and gave me a lazy smile.

"Emma, you're out of the hospital."

Her tone was as light as if she were greeting an uninvited guest.

"Why didn't you say something ahead of time? Ethan's not here today, no one made you soup."

Lisa angrily stepped forward: "Do you have no shame—"

I raised my hand to stop her, but my gaze was locked on Violet.

She sat up from the bed, deliberately pulling the comforter up around her shoulders, exposing the ambiguous red marks on her collarbone. Men's clothing was scattered at the foot of the bed. I didn't need to look to know whose it was.

She followed my gaze and her smile deepened.

"Don't look at me like that." She said softly. "Last night Ethan was afraid I'd sleep poorly alone, so he specially came back to keep me company."

My chest felt like something had stabbed it hard, the pain numbing.

Last night.

When I jumped from the second floor and lay in my blood waiting for the ambulance, he was celebrating Violet's birthday.

And now, having barely salvaged half my life from the fire, he'd let her sleep in my bed.

I stared at her, my voice terribly hoarse: "Get up."

Violet tilted her head as if she hadn't understood.

I immediately spotted the pale yellow blanket beneath her.

That was the baby blanket I'd bought for our future child.

Now it was covered in red wine stains and a large patch of vomit.

My expression went cold.

"Get up."

Violet looked down at the blanket and laughed.

"It's just a blanket. Why are you so worked up?"

I walked over and yanked the blanket out from under her, holding it to my chest.

The blanket was filthy beyond recognition, its edges burned through by cigarettes.

Violet nearly fell off the bed, her expression changing too.

"Emma, are you sick?"

I held the blanket and turned to leave.

But she stood up and blocked my way, her voice dropping:

"Do you really think you're still anything?"

"Ethan doesn't love you anymore. He just doesn't."

"While you were in the hospital, he took me to dinner, shopping, stayed overnight with me. When you were lying in that hospital bed miscarrying, he was buying me breakfast."

"Tell me, what are you?"

Lisa had already raised her phone to record.

"Keep talking." She said coldly. "Say more, save you from denying it later."

Seeing the camera, Violet's eyes flashed. She suddenly raised her hand and slapped herself twice hard, then sat down on the floor. Tears instantly started flowing.

"Emma, I already apologized. Why did you still hit me?"

"I didn't mean to sleep in your bed, I really didn't mean to—"

At that moment, the door was violently pushed open.

Ethan had returned.

He'd just finished a call-out, hadn't even changed out of his firefighter uniform, sweat still on his forehead. As soon as he entered, he saw Violet sitting on the floor covering her face and crying.

"Violet!"

He rushed over in a few strides and helped her up.

Violet grabbed his sleeve, crying so hard she could barely breathe:

"Ethan, don't blame Emma... it's all my fault, I shouldn't have touched her things..."

Lisa immediately spoke up:

"I recorded the whole thing, she just—"

"Shut up!"

Ethan didn't listen at all. He turned and slapped me across the face.

"Smack—"

I was knocked into the cabinet, my fractured arm immediately shooting with pain. The blanket in my arms fell to the floor.

Lisa was furious:

"Ethan! Have you lost your mind? She just got out of the hospital!"

But Ethan stared at me, grinding his teeth:

"Apologize to Violet."

I steadied myself against the cabinet and slowly stood up, blood at the corner of my mouth.

"You want me to apologize to her?"

"Yes." He stared at me. "I'm counting to three."

"Three—"

I bent down to pick up the divorce agreement from the floor, shook it out, and held it in front of him.

"Ethan, let's divorce."

He snatched it away and tore it up again.

"I told you, I won't sign."

"Then I'll file in court."

After saying that, I picked up my suitcase and walked out.

Just as I reached the door, a sudden sharp pain shot through my abdomen and everything went black.

Cold sweat instantly broke out on my back.

Lisa's face changed:

"Emma!"

I gripped the door frame. My legs gave out and I collapsed straight down.

Before losing consciousness, I heard her shouting:

"Call an ambulance! She's hemorrhaging!"