Ten years. That was the length of the marathon Galen and I had been running. For as long as I could remember, my family had been dropping hints, then outright begging, to finally meet the man I’d built my life around. But Galen always had an excuse. A high-profile case, a critical deposition, a late-night strategy meeting. Nine family dinners. Nine times he had promised to show, and nine times his chair had remained empty. The tenth time was different. My mother was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. Her doctor told us we were looking at weeks, maybe days. All she wanted—her final, desperate wish—was to look into the eyes of the man who would take care of me when she was gone. I stood in Galen’s sleek office, holding her critical condition notice in my trembling hands, practically begging him. Galen didn’t even look up from the thick legal brief in front of him. The scratch of his fountain pen on expensive paper was the only sound in the room. “This weekend is impossible,” he said, his voice smooth, professional, and entirely detached. “Helena’s divorce hearing is coming up. Her ex has been harassing her, and she’s a psychological wreck. I need to be there for her.” “Tell your mother to rest. She shouldn’t be wasting her energy stressing over things like this.” I stared at him, the silence stretching between us until it felt physical. “Galen,” I said, his name tasting like ash on my tongue. He offered a distracted, humoring murmur. “My mother might not survive the month,” I said, keeping my voice dead level. “I am bringing my future husband home this weekend. With or without you.” He finally put his pen down. A thin, patronizing smile touched his lips. “If I don’t go, Monica, who exactly are you bringing home? A ghost?” He leaned back, his tone shifting into that practiced, patronizing warmth he used to placate difficult clients. “Be good. We’ll talk about this after Helena’s trial is wrapped up.” I looked at him—really looked at him—and found myself smiling. A quiet, hollow sensation opened up in my chest. Ten times I had begged. Ten times he had decided my life, my grief, and my family were nothing more than an inconvenient distraction. I wasn’t going to beg an eleventh. I looked down at my phone and opened a chat thread that had been sitting quietly for three years. It was with my mother’s primary oncologist—a man who had patiently, respectfully waited in the margins of my life. I typed out a single sentence: “Dr. Ward, my mother wants to meet the man I’m going to marry. Let’s get married.” … “Monica, stop acting like a child.” Galen glanced at his Rolex, his brow furrowing with a hint of genuine irritation. “Helena’s ex-husband was lurking outside her building again yesterday. She’s a single mother, completely isolated. If something happens to her or the kid because I wasn’t reachable, who takes the fall?” “Your mother’s stomach issues are chronic. She’s in a state-of-the-art facility surrounded by specialists. What difference does it make if I’m standing by her bed?” “Can you please, just once, not use your family to emotionally hijack me when I’m in the middle of a career-defining case?” Ten years of devotion. Ten years of building my universe around his orbit. To him, my mother’s dying days were nothing but a cheap negotiation tactic. A hostage situation. I didn’t argue. I didn’t even sigh. Sensing my silence as submission, his features softened. He reached out, his hand moving toward my shoulder with the easy, familiar confidence of a man who knew exactly how to quiet me. “Come on, sweetheart. Be reasonable.” “Once we get Helena’s verdict, I swear I’ll block out an entire Saturday.” “We’ll go down to the hospital, have a nice lunch with your mom, and do the whole formal introduction. Okay?” I took a half-step back, letting his hand fall through the empty air. His hand hovered there for a second before dropping to his side. The warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by a cold, sharp anger. “Monica, are we really doing this again?” “Every time things don’t go exactly your way, you retreat into this childish silent treatment.” “Do you honestly think I have the luxury of revolving my life around your whims? That I have nothing better to do than cater to your insecurities?” A soft vibration hummed against my thigh. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. It was a text from Simon Ward. “Alright. I have tomorrow off. I’ll make the arrangements.” A weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying suddenly lifted, leaving me light, almost dizzy. I looked up, locking my gaze with Galen’s stormy eyes. My voice was quiet, steady, and entirely free of anger. “Galen, from now on, you don’t have to worry about making time for me ever again.” He blinked, caught off guard by the lack of tears, the lack of screaming. Then, a harsh, dismissive chuckle escaped him. “Right. Sure, Monica. You write that down and remember it.” “Because the next time you come crying, begging me to fix things, I won’t be here to play therapist.” Before he could continue his lecture, his phone on the desk lit up. The screen vibrated with a single contact name: Helena. Galen snatched it up instantly. The harshness in his voice melted away, replaced by a tender, frantic concern. “Hey. What’s going on? Is he there?” Helena’s voice bled through the receiver, high-pitched and trembling with tears. Even without speakerphone, her whimpers filled the quiet of the office. “Galen… the storm knocked out the power in my building. It’s pitch black. I’m so scared… I can’t breathe. My chest is so tight, Galen. Please, I feel like I’m dying…” Galen was already on his feet, knocking his chair back. He didn’t even reach for his coat. “Don’t panic, Helena. Breathe. I’m leaving right now. Just stay where you are, okay?” He ended the call and threw a fleeting, defensive look in my direction. “Helena’s having a severe panic attack. Her claustrophobia is flaring up. I have to go.” “As for your mother, like I said—once the judge signs off on Helena’s settlement, I’ll find a window to go over and get the introduction out of the way.” I remained seated, watching his frantic movements as he grabbed his car keys. “Galen,” I said. He paused at the door, his hand on the brass knob, looking back with a heavy, impatient sigh. “What is it now, Monica? A panic attack can lead to cardiac arrest. This is a medical emergency.” I looked at the face of the man I had loved for a third of my life. “We’re done, Galen. Let’s end this.” He let out a sharp, mocking scoff. “Monica, you’re thirty years old. Stop playing these pathetic, melodramatic games. I don’t have time for your hard-to-get acts.” He threw the door open and strode out, slamming it behind him. The lock clicked, and for the first time in ten years, I breathed in air that didn’t feel heavy. I walked back to our bedroom—no, his bedroom. I pulled my old suitcase from the top shelf of the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece. There wasn’t much. Galen had bought this townhouse three years ago, but every square inch of it had been decorated according to Helena’s specifications. She had chosen the cream linens, the minimalist light fixtures, the cold marble countertops. I remembered asking him, back when we moved in, why our home had to look like a gallery of another woman’s mind. “Helena has a degree in interior design,” he had snapped, dismissive as always. “She has actual taste. Don’t be so petty, Monica. It’s exhausting.” I smiled a quiet, bitter smile as I folded my sweaters into the suitcase. Thirty minutes later, I closed the zipper, dragged my bag down the steps, and hailed a cab to the hospital. In the oncology ward, the air was thick with the sterile scent of bleach and impending grief. My mother lay beneath a thin hospital blanket, her face gray, her breathing shallow beneath the clear plastic of her oxygen mask. Hearing my footsteps, she struggled to open her eyes. “Monica… sweetie… where’s Galen? Is he still working?” I knelt beside her bed, taking her cold, frail hand in both of mine. “He’s not coming, Mom.” Her chest sputtered, and the faint light in her eyes flickered. “Did I… did I make things difficult for you? Is he angry with me? Does he think we’re a burden?” “No, Mom,” I said quickly, my voice remarkably steady. “It’s not that at all.” “I broke up with him.” “I have a new boyfriend now.” “His name is Simon. Simon Ward. He’s your doctor.” My mother stared at me, her dry lips parting slightly. “Monica… don’t lie to me just to make me feel better. You’ve been with Galen for ten years. You don’t just… change your mind overnight.” I gently pulled the blanket up to her chin, my eyes clear. “I’m not lying, Mom. Ten years of a mistake is enough. I’d rather lose ten years than give him the rest of my life.” Just then, the heavy oak door to the private room clicked open. Simon walked in, wearing his white lab coat over a crisp blue shirt. He was tall, with sharp, elegant features behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and a quiet confidence that seemed to settle the frantic energy of the room. “Good evening, Helena,” he said, his voice a warm, soothing baritone. “Just doing my rounds. How are we feeling tonight?” He walked over to my side of the bed, his movements natural, and placed a gentle, supportive hand on my shoulder. My mother’s eyes darted between the two of us, wide with confusion and a sudden, fragile hope. “Dr. Ward… you and my Monica…” Simon smiled down at her. He reached down and took my hand, sliding his fingers between mine, locking them tightly. “I wanted to introduce myself formally, Helena. I’m Monica’s boyfriend, Simon.” “I apologize for keeping it from you. I wanted to wait until Monica had completely closed the door on her past so I could step forward and ask for your blessing properly.” A tear slipped down my mother’s hollow cheek. She reached out, her trembling fingers wrapping around our joined hands. “Thank God… thank God. If Monica is with you, I can rest easy.” Simon sat on the edge of her bed, talking with her for nearly an hour. He explained her lab results, answered her questions about pain management, and listened to her stories about my childhood. He had none of the cold, clinical distance you’d expect from the chief of surgery. He was just… there. Fully present. When the head nurse finally tapped on the glass to call him away for an emergency consult, he stood up reluctantly. “I’m on call tonight,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed my temple. The gesture was so tender, so effortless, it felt as though we had been doing this for a lifetime. “My shift ends at eight tomorrow. Meet me at the county clerk’s office at nine?” I nodded. “Nine o’clock.” Late that night, around 2:00 AM, I walked down the hall to the hospital’s break room to fill a pitcher with fresh ice water. As I rounded the corner near the elevators, I heard a familiar, delicate voice. “Galen, really, I’m fine. It was just a little slip with the paring knife. I didn’t need to drag you to the ER for a tiny cut.” Then came Galen’s deep, protective rumble. “Tetanus isn’t a joke, Helena. And given your emotional state right now, I wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing you were alone in that dark apartment.” I walked out from the shadow of the corridor. There they were. Galen’s arm was wrapped firmly around Helena’s waist, pulling her close against his side in a gesture that was intimately possessive. Helena’s finger was wrapped in a tiny, ridiculous cartoon Band-Aid. When Galen’s eyes met mine, his entire body went rigid. He instinctively pulled his arm back, clearing his throat. Helena shrank back, her eyes wide and watery. “Monica… please don’t be mad. I really didn’t want to bother him, but my finger was bleeding so much, and Galen insisted…” She held up her index finger like a trophy of her victimhood. I didn’t say a word. I kept my face blank and started to walk past them toward the water dispenser. Galen stepped into my path, a flicker of guilt crossing his features before his usual defensive mask slid back on. “How’s your mother?” he asked, his voice stiff. “I’ve been buried under paperwork the last forty-eight hours. I haven’t had a second to check in.” I ignored him, pushing past his shoulder. Galen grabbed my forearm, his grip tight and angry. “Do you have to act so incredibly petty right now? I told you, Helena’s mental state is fragile. Are you seriously going to throw a tantrum over a medical emergency?” I wrenched my arm out of his grasp, turning on him with a coldness that made him blink. “Are you delusional, Galen?” “You think I’m jealous? You actually believe you’re worth that kind of energy?” Helena’s eyes flooded with tears on cue. “Galen, please don’t fight because of me. It’s all my fault. Monica, you can scream at me, you can hit me, just don’t be mad at him.” Galen immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. “Monica, you are being utterly irrational!” he hissed. “You’re acting like a hysterical shrew. I’m warning you—if you keep behaving like this, we are not getting married.” I let out a soft, genuine laugh. “Good. We’re not.” Galen’s jaw went slack. “What?” “I said we’re done, Galen. The wedding is off. We are finished.” The color drained from his face for a split second, but he quickly recovered, his lips curling into a cruel, arrogant sneer. “Please, Monica. You’re thirty years old. If you don’t marry me, who else do you think is going to take you?” I didn’t waste another breath. I walked away, the sound of my sneakers clicking softly against the linoleum floor. The next morning, the winter sun was just beginning to break through the gray clouds when I arrived at the city hall. Simon was already waiting on the steps. He wore a tailored charcoal wool suit, his dark hair neatly styled, his eyes warm and focused behind his glasses. The moment he saw me, his expression softened. He walked down the steps to meet me, naturally taking the heavy shoulder bag from my hand. “Did you eat?” he asked. I shook my head, my throat tight. “It was a bit of a rush getting out of the hospital.” He smiled, reaching into his pocket and producing a small, insulated container. “I had a feeling. It’s warm chicken and wild rice soup. Just to coat your stomach.” I stared at the warm metal container in my hands, a sudden prickle of tears stinging my eyes. “Simon… you don’t have to do all this.” “Call me Simon,” he corrected softly, his voice gentle but firm. “And yes, I do. We’re getting married, Monica. We should start getting used to looking after each other, shouldn’t we?” I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a small smile. “Okay. Simon.” The process inside was incredibly simple. There were no endless discussions about guest lists, no tense negotiations over prenuptial agreements, no last-minute cancellations. When the clerk pressed the heavy gold seal onto our marriage certificate, a strange, beautiful sense of peace washed over me. Simon picked up his copy and slid it into his breast pocket, then turned to me, holding out my copy. “Congratulations, Mrs. Ward.” I looked at our names printed side-by-side on the crisp white paper and let out a long, shuddering breath of pure relief. “Thank you, Simon.” The moment we stepped back out into the crisp morning air, my phone began to vibrate violently in my purse. It was Galen. I hesitated for a second before pressing answer. “Monica, where did you put the blue litigation folder for the corporate acquisition?” His voice was frantic, demanding, and entirely devoid of a greeting. “Helena’s preliminary mediation is this afternoon, and those documents are critical.” “I don’t know,” I said, my voice deadpan. “How could you not know? You’re the only one who touches the files in the study!” he barked. “Did you hide them to punish me for yesterday? Are you really that vindictive, Monica? This is my career. This is Helena’s entire future on the line!” I found myself shaking my head at the sheer, unadulterated narcissism of his mind. For ten years, if anything went missing, it was my fault. If his day went wrong, it was my fault. If Helena sneezed, it was my fault. “Galen,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly calm. “First, I packed my things and moved out of your house last night. I didn’t touch your files.” “Second, Helena’s future is no longer my concern, and neither is your career.” “Third, do not call this number again.” There was a heavy, stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then, Galen let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Moved out? Really, Monica? We’re playing the dramatic runaway bride now? You think this little stunt is going to make me chase after you?” “I’m telling you right now, I won’t. You have exactly one hour to get your head straight, get back to the house, and find that folder, or else—” “Or else what, Mr. Philips?” Simon had quietly stepped up beside me. He took the phone from my hand, his voice cool, level, and utterly commanding. “Who is this?” Galen demanded, his voice instantly turning hostile. “My name is Simon Ward. I’m Monica’s husband,” Simon said, his tone as smooth and constant as a scalpel. “My wife is currently celebrating our wedding with me, and she doesn’t have the time or the inclination to play hide-and-seek with your paperwork.” “If your basic organizational skills are this deficient, I suggest you hire an administrative assistant rather than harassing another man’s wife.” Without waiting for a response, Simon hung up, opened my settings, and added Galen’s number to the block list. He handed the phone back to me with a reassuring smile. “Let’s go see our mother, shall we?” In the hospital room, my mother stared at the gold-embossed seal on the marriage certificate, then up at Simon, her eyes swimming with tears. “Dr. Ward… I don’t know how to thank you…” Simon walked over and knelt beside the low bed, gently wrapping his fingers around hers. “Mom, please. Call me Simon. To be honest, I’ve been in love with Monica for a very long time. I was just waiting for the right moment to show her.” “I promise you, I will cherish her for the rest of my life. She will never have to face anything alone again.” My mother nodded weakly, tears spilling over her pale cheeks. “Good… that’s all I wanted. To see my little girl in her white dress, safe.” “I can go now… I can close my eyes in peace.” “Mom, don’t talk like that,” I whispered, my voice breaking as I tried to hold back my tears. Simon stood up, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me close against his chest. “She’s right, Monica. You need to wear the dress.” “I had a few designers send some pieces over this morning. They’re set up in the private lounge next door. Go try them on, sweetheart. Let your mother see you.” I looked at him in shock, but he only gave me a gentle, encouraging nudge. “Go on.” Ten minutes later, I pushed open the door to my mother’s hospital room. The silk of the ivory gown swept softly against the floor, the delicate lace sleeves framing my shoulders. My mother’s eyes went wide, reflecting a sudden, brilliant light. “Oh, Monica…” she whispered, her hand trembling as she reached toward the fabric. “You look so beautiful… my beautiful girl…” Suddenly, the heavy door was slammed open, banging violently against the wall. “Monica! What the hell are you doing?” Galen stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his tie crooked, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He looked like a man unraveling. His eyes swept across the room, landing on the ivory gown, and he let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Just because I wouldn’t give you the wedding you wanted today, you rent some cheap dress and hire a local doctor to play-act a marriage in a cancer ward?” “Do you honestly think I’m that easily manipulated?” He stormed forward, his hand snapping out to grab my wrist. “Stop this ridiculous theater and come home. Helena’s mediation starts in two hours and I need those files.” I struggled against his grip, my heart pounding with a sudden surge of adrenaline. “Let go of me, Galen! Don’t touch me!” “Let go?” he sneered, his fingers tightening. “You’ve spent ten years living in my house, eating my food, spending my money. You don’t get to play the victim now!” Before he could drag me a step closer, a pale, strong hand clamped down on his wrist. Simon stood there, his face completely expressionless, but the grip he had on Galen’s arm was so tight the bones in Galen’s wrist audibly groaned. “Mr. Philips,” Simon said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register. “Your memory seems exceptionally selective.” “For the past decade, Monica not only managed your household and cooked your meals, but she also used her entire salary as a senior copywriter to cover your firm’s early rent and overhead.” “Living off a woman’s labor while calling yourself her savior is a rather pathetic display.” Galen gasped, the pain forcing him to loosen his grip on my wrist. He stumbled back, nursing his arm, his eyes dark with fury. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Galen snarled. “This is family business. Stay out of it.” “Family?” Simon reached into his suit jacket, pulled out the red leather marriage certificate, and held it inches from Galen’s face. “Look closely, Mr. Philips.” “Monica is my legal wife.” “And you are nothing but an intruder trespassing in my patient’s room, harassing my wife.”
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