Oliver spent twenty minutes searching for Grace in the fire while I was still trapped inside. I didn’t blame him. Her father had died saving his life. But when the firefighters finally pulled me out, my right hand was crushed to pulp by a fallen beam. That was the hand that had performed five hundred delicate neurosurgery procedures. Oliver glanced at it in the hospital, his brow creased. “Grace has a weak heart. She can’t take any shock. They can reattach your hand. Just don’t cry about the pain in front of her.” Later, the hand was reattached, but all the nerves were dead. Oliver said, “Maybe it’s better this way. You can’t be a surgeon anymore. Now you can focus on giving us a baby. Grace needs looking after. You’ll be here for her.” I looked at my useless, trembling hand and calmly slipped the high-risk epidemic relief volunteer application into my bag. “Fine. Whatever you say.” He didn’t know that once the application was approved, I would erase my social security number, change my name, and vanish from this world completely. As for the spouse’s signature? He’d signed it yesterday without a second thought, too busy rushing me to give up the master bedroom for Grace.
Jasmine POV On a stormy day, my right hand felt like thousands of ants were gnawing at the bone. I sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, trying to thread a needle. One of Oliver’s shirt buttons had fallen off. I used to be quick and precise at suturing wounds, but now the needle trembled uncontrollably in my grip. It missed the eye. My hand jerked, knocking over a small vial of dark amber tincture beside me. It was an unlicensed painkiller I’d brewed for myself. The brownish-black liquid spilled across the floor, sharp and chemical. The door opened. Oliver walked in with Grace. The rain outside was heavy. Oliver’s clothes were damp, but Grace was perfectly dry under his shelter, wearing the limited edition silk slip dress I’d been hunting for months. It was my dress. Oliver’s expression tightened the moment he crossed the threshold. His eyes flicked to the mess on the floor. “Jasmine, what’s all this? Keep it down. Grace just got home from the hospital. She can’t take any stress.” Grace shrank behind him, glancing at me timidly, her hand clutching Oliver’s sleeve. “Oliver, don’t blame Jasmine. I’m just too easily scared.” I didn’t look at them. I crouched to pick up the broken glass. My right hand jerked. A sharp edge sliced my fingertip open, and blood welled up instantly. If I’d gotten even a paper cut before, Oliver would have panicked and bought out every first aid kit in the city. Now he just watched coldly, even stepping back to avoid the spilled liquid on the floor. “That hand’s been useless for ages. How can you still be so clumsy?” He yanked at his tie in irritation. “Leave it. The cleaner will deal with it. You smell like a lab. It’s disgusting.” I watched the blood drip from my finger and mix into the black liquid below. Suddenly, it all felt pointless. “My hand hurts,” I said quietly. It was the truth. On rainy days, the broken parts throbbed with pain. Oliver stopped, then his frown deepened. “That excuse again. The physio said it healed months ago. How long are you going to keep up this act?” Grace interjected softly. “Is Jasmine upset that I’m wearing her dress? I’m sorry. My clothes got wet, and Oliver didn’t want me to catch a cold, so he told me to change. I’ll take it off right now and give it back.” She moved to pull at the straps, her eyes instantly reddening. Oliver grabbed her hand and glared at me. “It’s just a dress. Are you really this petty? Jasmine, you used to be so generous. When did you become so calculating?” I used to be generous because I had the confidence to be. I was the youngest lead surgeon at this top-tier hospital. I had my pride. I didn’t need to bother with a charity case like my adopted sister. But now, my hand was ruined. Oliver thought only my hand was ruined. But my value and dignity had been destroyed too. I ignored Grace’s performance, using my good left hand to pick up the glass shards one by one and drop them into the trash. Blood smeared across the floor. It was a shocking sight. Oliver finally seemed unable to stand it anymore. He walked over and kicked the trash can. “Enough. Stop being an eyesore. Go cook. Grace wants beef Wellington.” “I can’t make it.” I stood up, hiding my injured finger in my sleeve. “The pastry needs kneading. My hand doesn’t have the strength.” “Jasmine!” Oliver raised his voice. “How long are you going to keep this up? Grace is someone you watched grow up. You know she’s not well. Will making one meal kill you?” “It’ll hurt,” I said, looking into his eyes calmly. “Using force makes my hand hurt.” Oliver froze, seemingly not expecting me to push back so bluntly. The irritation in his eyes deepened. “Fine. Do whatever you want. If you won’t cook, then starve.” He pulled Grace upstairs and slammed the bedroom door shut with a bang. The world was finally quiet. I looked at the empty living room. This place used to be lively. I loved buying flowers, experimenting with molecular gastronomy, waiting for Oliver to come home. Now it was just a mess and bitterness filling every corner. I went to the bathroom to treat my wound. When I came out, I noticed an express delivery notice stuffed in the mailbox by the door. It was from Geneva headquarters. The sender’s name was a string of codes, but I knew who it was. It was from the global epidemic response team codenamed “Sentinel.” Three months ago, right after my hand was broken, I’d submitted an application. Back then, I hadn’t planned to leave completely. I just wanted to give myself an escape route. Now it seemed that route of escape had become my only path. I clutched the notice in my hand, crushing the paper into a crumpled ball. If there was no place left for me here, I would go where only the dead, or those who are already dead inside, could exist.
Jasmine POV The next morning, I went to the hospital. Even though I’d been suspended, I still wanted to visit, if only to smell the disinfectant. Passing by the neurosurgery clinic, I ran into my attending physician and mentor, Matthew. He looked at my hand and sighed, handing me the latest electromyography report. “Jasmine, nerve damage is irreversible. You’ll be fine for daily life, but holding a scalpel… that’s never going to happen again.” I’d known the outcome for a while, but hearing the verdict pronounced again still hollowed out a part of my chest. I traced the jagged scar and smiled faintly. “It’s okay. I can live without holding a scalpel. I can do pathology research.” Matthew hesitated, then finally just patted my shoulder. “Where’s Oliver? Why didn’t he come with you?” “He’s busy with a merger at the company.” He really was busy. On my way downstairs, I saw Oliver carrying Grace toward the ER. Her face was contorted in pain, hands clutched to her chest. Oliver’s forehead gleamed with sweat, his thousand-dollar custom shirt stained dark. In his rush, he shouldered past me without a glance-his eyes never leaving her. I stood there, watching their figures disappear around the corner. Matthew sighed behind me. “He’s like this again? Jasmine, why do you put yourself through this?” “It’s not suffering.” I tore up the follow-up report and tossed it in the trash. “It’ll be over soon.” When I got home from the hospital, the house was empty. I walked to the balcony, intending to check on the rare black orchid I’d been cultivating. Buried in that orchid’s soil was a targeted medication I’d spent three months extracting. Oliver suffered from severe migraines-the kind that made him bang his head against the wall. After my hand was ruined and I could no longer hold a scalpel, I combed through all my old experimental data and painstakingly extracted plant essences with my left hand, refining them into a concentrated paste. Because I couldn’t exert much force, I often injured myself during the grinding process and had to endure the fumes from chemical reagents. I hadn’t had a chance to give him the medicine yet. I walked onto the balcony and stopped dead in my tracks. The expensive orchid was lying on the ground, the pot shattered, soil scattered everywhere. And the dark brown paste I’d been fermenting on the shelf was now being poured over the orchid’s remains by Grace. The brownish liquid pooled on the floor, releasing a rich herbal fragrance. “Oh, Jasmine’s back?” Grace heard the noise and turned around, still holding the empty bottle. Her face wore a startled expression. “I thought this black stuff in the bottle was spoiled balsamic vinegar, so I was trying to help clean it up.” She’d poured it all out. Not a single drop remained. Three months of hard work. The thing I’d covered my hands in wounds to create. I walked over and took the empty bottle from her hand. I said nothing. “Jasmine, why are you looking at me like that? I really didn’t mean to…” Grace shrank back, tears coming instantly. “The smell was so strong it made me nauseous. I thought it was trash…” Footsteps sounded at the door. Oliver was back. Seeing the scene, he strode over and pulled Grace behind him, frowning at me. “What are you doing now? Grace just had her heart checked. The doctor said she can’t be upset.” I looked at the empty bottle in my hand and suddenly laughed. “Oliver, when your head hurts, don’t ask me for medicine anymore.” Oliver froze, then glanced at the mess on the floor and scoffed. “This black gunk? What weird experiment are you trying now? I told you before-I don’t take uncertified junk like this. It’s better that it’s gone. Saves space.” Was that uncertified junk? That was a specialized medication I’d created after reviewing dozens of top medical journals and consulting countless pharmacists, all to ease his pain. “Yeah. Better that it’s gone.” I released my grip. The empty bottle fell to the floor and shattered with a crack. Grace screamed, covering her ears and burying herself in Oliver’s arms. “Oliver, Jasmine’s so scary. I’m afraid of her…” Oliver patted her back, looking at me with disgust. “Jasmine, why have you become so unreasonable? Just because she spilled a bottle of your condiment, you have to throw a tantrum? Apologize to Grace!” I didn’t move. “Apologize!” He raised his voice, his gaze ice-cold. In the past, I would’ve shoved the molecular formula in his face, told him what it really was, and had a screaming match with him. But now, looking at the black puddle on the floor, it looked like my dead heart. “I’m sorry.” I spoke, my voice so calm it surprised even me. Oliver clearly hadn’t expected me to comply so quickly. He froze, the reprimand on his lips stuck in his throat. I didn’t look at him. I turned to get the mop. “I’ll clean it up.” I bent down, using my ruined hand to clumsily sweep the shards and soil into the dustpan. Oliver stood there watching me. For some reason, he didn’t leave with Grace like usual. Instead, he stood there, his frown deepening. “Jasmine, you…” “The floor’s too dirty. You two should leave so you don’t get your shoes dirty.” I interrupted him without looking up, kneeling on the floor with a rag, wiping away the medicinal liquid bit by bit. Some things couldn’t be cleaned. Once they seeped in, they’d never come out.
Jasmine POV Oliver’s birthday arrived. In previous years, I would start planning a week in advance. I’d take half a day off, reserve premium ingredients, and spend an entire day in the kitchen making a full table of his favorite French cuisine. I’d decorate the house warmly and prepare expensive surprise gifts for him. Even his business friends knew that day was “Chef Jasmine Day,” calling ahead to reserve a spot at dinner. But this year, I did nothing. That morning, Oliver deliberately spent a long time at the mirror, changing into a new custom-tailored suit. He glanced at me several times, seemingly waiting for me to say “Happy birthday.” But I just sat by the window reading. I didn’t even look up. He couldn’t hold back anymore. Before leaving, he cleared his throat. “I have a few partners coming over tonight.” “Oh.” I turned a page. “Get ready.” He tossed out that sentence and slammed the door. At 5 PM, Oliver called. The background was noisy. Someone was heckling. “Where’s Jasmine? I’ve been craving that lobster she makes for a whole year!” Oliver’s voice sounded a bit smug. “She’s busy at home. Just come straight over.” Then he said to me, “Jasmine, make plenty of food. Matthew and the others are coming. Don’t embarrass me.” I held the phone, looking at the gray sky outside. “I didn’t cook.” Silence on the other end for a second. “What did you say?” Oliver’s voice dropped. “I said I didn’t cook. I didn’t order catering either.” I said calmly. “My hand hurts. Prepping ingredients is too exhausting. I can’t do it.” “Jasmine, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Oliver lowered his voice, anger traveling through the line. “It’s my birthday. My friends are all watching. You’re making me look bad?” Grace’s voice came through. Cloying. “Oliver, is Jasmine still mad at me? How about I cook? Even though I’m not well, I can endure it for you.” Oliver immediately said, “Don’t you dare. Your hands are for painting. How can you let them touch cooking grease?” Hearing that, I couldn’t help but look at my right hand. My hand used to hold a scalpel. It was a hand that could snatch people back from death. Now, in his eyes, it wasn’t even worthy of cooking for Grace. “Since Grace cares about you so much, let her do it.” I hung up. Half an hour later, Oliver came home. With Grace, and that group of awkward-looking friends. They walked in to find cold pots and a cold stove. The open kitchen had no trace of warmth. Oliver’s face was black as soot. “Jasmine, fine. You’re really something.” He ground his teeth, throwing his coat violently onto the sofa. “Are you staging a rebellion?” Friends awkwardly tried to smooth things over. “Jasmine’s hand is injured. It’s normal she can’t cook. Let’s just go to a Michelin restaurant. I’ve been wanting to try that new place anyway.” Grace wiped away tears beside them. “It’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, Jasmine wouldn’t treat Oliver like this…” I ignored the chaos filling the room and turned toward the study. “Where are you going?” Oliver shouted behind me. “To pack.” I walked into the study and pulled out a large cardboard box from the cabinet. Inside were all the medical awards, licenses, and certificates I’d earned since childhood, along with every paper I’d published in core journals over the years. I used to treasure these things. I’d take them out and polish them when I had free time. Oliver used to say I was his pride. He loved seeing me shine as a top surgeon, confident and radiant. Now, to him, these things were probably worth less than one of Grace’s sketches. I started throwing the certificates into the box one by one. My movements were gentle but decisive. “What are you doing?” Oliver appeared in the doorway at some point, freezing when he saw what I was doing. “These things take up space.” I picked up a notebook Oliver had once given me, filled with dense notes from my surgeries. “Do you want it?” Oliver glanced at it. It was a pure leather notebook he’d brought back from a business trip to Italy during our first year of marriage. The flyleaf still read, “To my beloved genius doctor.” His gaze flickered, as if remembering something, but it was quickly replaced by impatience. “What act are you putting on now? Don’t want to stay married anymore?” “Do you want these or not?” I asked persistently. “If not, I’m throwing them out.” Oliver laughed coldly. “Who cares about your junk besides you? Throw it out if you want. Make room for Grace.” “Okay.” I closed the box. That night, they ate out. I lit a fire in the backyard fireplace. Those certificates and awards representing thirty years of my achievements curled, blackened, and finally turned to ash in the flames. The firelight reflected on my face. It felt hot. When I got to the notebook, I hesitated for a moment, then threw it in anyway. Oliver, since you don’t care, I won’t keep it. Along with my love for you, I’ll burn it all clean.
Jasmine POV The next day, Grace predictably set her sights on my study. At the breakfast table, she cradled her oat milk and said casually, “Oliver, my therapist said I’m under a lot of stress lately. She suggested I paint to help. But the guest room lighting is too dim. I noticed Jasmine’s study faces south. The natural light is perfect…” She didn’t finish, just looked at Oliver with those dewy eyes. Oliver set down his coffee cup and glanced at me. “Jasmine, you threw out most of your books anyway. The study’s empty. Why not let Grace use it as a studio?” I was drinking coffee. My hand paused at his words. I’d designed that study myself. Ergonomic chair, shadowless lamp-every shelf height was calibrated for me to easily access reference materials and write papers. It was my last territory in this house. “That’s my study,” I said, looking at him. “You don’t work anymore. What do you need a study for?” Oliver said matter-of-factly. “Grace wants to paint for her health. It’ll help her condition. Can you stop being so selfish?” “Selfish?” I laughed, the smile not reaching my eyes. “Oliver, when we bought this house, I paid half. I decorated that study. I moved every single book in there myself. And now you want to give it to Grace?” Oliver slammed his knife down on the table with a bang. “Jasmine, do you really have to settle accounts with me so clearly? Grace’s health is poor. What’s wrong with you accommodating her? Besides, if it weren’t for you, would Grace’s health be this bad?” Here we go again. The fire was his trump card. Every time he brought it up, I had to shut my mouth. “That day of the fire, if you hadn’t insisted on running back in to save that dog, your hand wouldn’t be broken!” Oliver pointed at my nose, his face full of disappointment. “You were stupid and ruined your own hand. Now you’re taking it out on Grace?” Grace lowered her head, her shoulders shaking. “Oliver, stop. I won’t paint. I shouldn’t have asked…” I watched them play this duet and suddenly felt it was all so absurd. That day of the fire, I did run back in. But not to save a dog. I went back to save the engineering blueprints and confidential data drive Oliver kept in the safe in his study. It was for the multi-billion dollar project he was leading. If it burned, years of his hard work would be gone. He might even face massive compensation claims and jail time. I charged into the flames, found that fireproof box, and held it tightly. When the beam came down, I instinctively raised my right hand to block it. My hand broke. The hard drive was saved. And Oliver? He was outside, holding Grace’s cat, frantic and spinning in circles, shouting Grace’s name. Later, when they rescued me, before I passed out from the pain, I shoved that scorching-hot hard drive into his arms. But he was only concerned with checking if Grace was hurt. He didn’t even notice what I’d given him. That project later landed him on the cover of Forbes. He still thought I’d run in to save a dog that wasn’t even trapped inside. “So that’s what you think,” I said quietly, looking at him. “Isn’t it?” Oliver countered. “Losing a hand over a dog. Jasmine, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” I didn’t explain. What would be the point? Tell him the truth so he’d feel guilty? The Oliver of today didn’t deserve my truth. I stood up and walked to the study door, pushing it open. Half of it was already empty. What remained were rare medical texts I hadn’t had time to deal with yet. I walked over and picked up a first-edition microsurgical atlas-a gift from Matthew. “Fine.” I turned around and, right in front of them, threw the book into the recycling box. “You’re right. I really don’t need it anymore.” I picked up another book. Threw it. One after another. Heavy volumes thudded into the box with dull sounds. Oliver watched me, frowning deeper and deeper. He seemed about to say something but ultimately just snorted. “You should’ve done this earlier. No need to make everything ugly.” Grace ran over happily, hugging Oliver’s arm. “Thank you, Oliver! Jasmine’s so nice!” I threw the last book in and brushed the dust off my hands. “It’s cleared out. You two can use it however you want.” In this house, the space that belonged to me was shrinking. Good. That way, when I left, there’d be nothing to miss.
Jasmine POV Late that night, my phone rang. Oliver was in the shower. I answered. A voice, mechanically altered, came through. “Ms. Jasmine? I’m calling regarding your application to Project ‘Sentinel.’” I glanced toward the bathroom and lowered my own voice. “Speaking.” “We’ve reviewed your profile. Your expertise aligns with our needs. Specifically, your research on viral occlusion pathways is precisely what’s required in the current West African outbreak.” He paused, his tone turning serious. “However, I am obligated to inform you this is a classified, high-risk deployment. Acceptance requires the termination of your current legal identity. For a decade or more, you will have no contact with the outside world. The environment is hostile, the virus volatile, and the mortality rate is significant.” “I understand,” I answered calmly. “I’ve studied the relevant materials. I have new insights into the transmission routes and blockage mechanisms of the R-type virus. If given the opportunity, I’m confident I can crack it.” I recited a string of technical terms fluidly, a kind of confidence I hadn’t felt in years. Silence lingered on the other end for a few seconds. Clearly, they hadn’t expected my grasp of the project to be so thorough. “Excellent. We would be glad to have you.” The recruiter’s voice held a note of respect. “However, due to the project’s sensitive nature, we require one more document beyond your personal application. We need a signed high-risk mission informed consent and liability waiver from your legal spouse. It’s a procedural requirement to prevent any future legal claims from family members.” My fingers tightened around the phone. Spousal signature. It was the biggest hurdle. “Understood. I’ll take care of it.” “Time is critical. Please proceed quickly. A special transport will pass through your city soon. We’ll contact you then.” “Got it.” I hung up. The sound of water in the bathroom had just stopped. Oliver came out drying his hair. Seeing me standing there, he asked offhandedly, “Who was that?” “Insurance telemarketer,” I lied without missing a beat. Oliver scoffed. “Who’d sell you insurance now? Everyone knows your primary earning capacity is gone. No job. No ability to repay.” He walked to the fridge for water, noticing I was still standing there. His gaze darkened. “Still haven’t given up? Still scrambling around like a headless fly looking for work?” He’d clearly overheard a fragment or two. “With your hand like that, what hospital insurance would cover you?” He took a sip of water, his tone cold. “Jasmine, you need to learn to accept reality. Stay home obediently and take care of my and Grace’s daily needs. I won’t treat you badly.” I looked at him, my gaze like I was looking at a complete stranger. This was the man who once vowed before a priest to support my dreams. Now his only dream was to keep me here, in this small world, as his permanent housekeeper. “Yeah,” I smiled faintly. “There really is no place for me here anymore.” Oliver paused and looked back at me, as if searching my words for a hidden meaning. But he quickly interpreted it as me complaining that no one would hire me. “Good that you finally understand.” He set his glass down with a sharp click. “Then stop making trouble. Settle in.” He turned and walked upstairs, leaving me with nothing but the cold line of his back. His “no place” meant the world outside had no use for a damaged woman. My “no place” meant there was no room left for me inside this house, inside this marriage. I needed that signature. I had to get it.
Jasmine POV Three days. Time was tight. God seemed to be helping me make the decision. The rain hadn’t stopped these past few days. On rainy days, my hand hurt terribly-nerve endings shooting with pain, like electric currents running through them. That evening, Oliver sat on the sofa peeling an apple for Grace. He peeled it meticulously, leaving no trace of skin, then sliced it into delicate pieces and fed them to Grace. “Is it sweet?” he asked gently. “Yes.” Grace smiled sweetly. “Oliver’s apples are always the sweetest.” I sat on the single sofa across the room, a cold sweat breaking over me from the pain, my face bleached of color. I wanted water, but the kettle was on the other end of the coffee table, near Oliver. “Pour me some water,” I said, my voice a bit hoarse.Oliver didn’t even look up. “The kettle’s right next to you. Pour it yourself. Can’t you see I’m busy?” Busy feeding Grace apple slices. I gritted my teeth and reached out with my left hand for the kettle. Because my right hand was trembling from pain, half my body was shaking. My hand had just touched the kettle handle when it slipped. The stainless steel kettle tipped over. Scalding water spilled out, pouring directly onto the back of my hand. I gasped. The skin instantly turned bright red over a large area. Oliver was startled by the noise and jumped to his feet. His first instinct was to shield Grace. “Did it get you?” Grace shook her head and pointed at me. “Jasmine got burned.” Only then did Oliver turn to look at me. Seeing my swollen hand, his brow immediately knotted into a tight frown. “What’s wrong with you?” Instead of showing concern, his face was full of reproach. “You can’t even pour water without making a mess. How useless have you become?” I said nothing. I grabbed a few tissues with my left hand and pressed them against the burn. It hurt. A burning, searing pain mixed with nerve pain. It made me clearheaded. “Enough. Stop playing the victim.” Seeing my silence, Oliver assumed I was seeking sympathy. “There’s burn ointment in the medicine cabinet. Put it on yourself. You’re a doctor-do you need someone to teach you this?” With that, he settled back to fussing over Grace. “Don’t be frightened. Jasmine’s just clumsy these days. It’s nothing.” I looked at my swollen hand. The last ember in my heart went cold. I’d thought that if he showed even a shred of care, the smallest amount, I might still waver. But now, there was no need. I stood up. I didn’t reach for the burn cream. I walked to the bedroom and took out the folder I’d prepared long ago. Inside lay a draft of divorce papers. And tucked between them, that informed consent form. I was going to use his impatience, his coldness, to buy my freedom.
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