Chapter 8
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The hospital room had just settled into quiet when her phone suddenly rang.
Shirley fumbled to answer it.
A voice, aged yet robust, came through, “Child, it’s Grandpa.”
Shirley froze.
In her diary, this elder from the Mitchell Family seemed the only relative who’d shown her kindness.
“My dear, I’ve learned everything that’s happened lately.”
Grandpa Mitchell’s voice held both tenderness and heartache.
“You’ve endured too much. Since Timothy married you, he must treat you right. Don’t worry–I’ll make this right.”
For the first time since losing her memory, Shirley felt genuine care and affection.
Shirley’s nose stung, tears threatening to fall.
“No need, Grandpa. I’m fine.”
“You always make my heart ache, girl.” The old man sighed.
“You’re our true heiress, yet after being kidnapped you suffered so much. Your own parents show less care for you than their adopted daughter. And Timothy…”
“After all you’ve sacrificed for him these years… he treats you with such cold indifference, incapable of genuine af- fection. He will regret this!”
Shirley stared blankly at the snow–white ceiling.
She remembered none of this.
Yet merely hearing it made her heart clench in waves of aching pain.
“Alright, this old man needs his check–up now.” He finally said.
“Remember–come to Grandpa whenever you need support.”
Not long after the call ended, the hospital room door burst open.
Timothy stood at the door, suit impeccably pressed, eyes icy cold.
“First you pull an allergy stunt to fake suicide, then you run to Grandpa for backup. Shirley, is there any trick left be- sides suicide and Grandpa to get my attention?”
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Shirley wanted to explain, but seeing the mockery in his gaze, she finally murmured softly, “I didn’t mean to fake anything. I just forgot about my peanut allergy.”
“Forgot your peanut allergy?” Timothy sneered. “Why not say you forgot who you are?”
Shirley watched him silently.
Yes, she had forgotten who she was.
She’d forgotten the Shirley who groveled for love, forgotten those years of soul–crushing despair, and forgotten… the bone–deep love she once felt for him.
But she didn’t say a word about any of this.
Perhaps pressured by her grandfather, Timothy reluctantly stayed to “care” for her.
But it was less like care and more like another form of torment.
He ignored the blood backing up in her IV line; stayed indifferent when hot water scalded her hand; even when she struggled to breathe and pressed the call button, he only phoned his assistant:
“Has Patricia’s burn been redressed? Deliver the best scar treatment ointment.”
The cruelest irony was that though she no longer loved him, Shirley still felt suffocated.
How had her former self–that woman desperately in love with Timothy–endured years of this endless torture?
As plane tree leaves drifted past the window, she suddenly remembered the words on her diary’s last page:
“If I ever stop loving you, it’ll mean my heart has died.”
Now she realized that Shirley who wrote those words had likely died long ago in countless ignored nights.
The day Shirley was discharged, the hospital room stood empty.
Shirley knew Timothy had gone to find Patricia again.
Three years into their marriage, the days he’d spent by her side could be counted on one hand.
She’d grown accustomed to it, silently waiting for her immigration paperwork to be processed.
Meanwhile, Patricia’s Social Media Feed never paused-
Skiing in Switzerland, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, island sunsets…
In every photo, Timothy’s gaze was piercingly tender.
The latest post showed them at a mountain’s snowy base.
Timothy’s slender fingers gently gathered Patricia’s scarf as he bent to secure it tighter. Patricia leaned into his em- brace, her smile beaming.
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The caption read: He promised to show me the whole world.
Shirley scrolled past it calmly, as if viewing a stranger’s post.
Three days later, immigration finally called to confirm her paperwork was ready.
She immediately hailed a cab.
After collecting her passport and visa, she stopped by the law firm to pick up the divorce papers and cut all ties with family.
With everything prepared, she could finally leave this place for good.
Shirley neatly folded the divorce agreement and family severance documents, tucking them into the innermost com- partment of her bag.
Just as she zipped it shut, her phone screen lit up.
Patricia: Sis, we need to talk.J
Shirley: About what?J
Patricia: You’ve held the title of Mrs. Mitchell for three years. Isn’t it time to return it?]
Shirley’s lips twisted into a cold smirk as she typed: Already did.J
She tossed the phone into her bag and walked home without looking back.
As she pushed open the front door, the motion–sensor light in the Entry Hall remained dark.
Frowning, she fumbled for the wall switch when a sharp pain exploded at the back of her head-
Before consciousness faded, she heard Patricia’s voice speaking with a man.
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