Drowning Him In Regret

Chapter 6 Swallowing The Bitter Pill

Watching their shadows fade down the hall, it slammed into me like a gut punch.

No wonder Jude never hauled Vivian's ass home-her prissy self couldn't deal with dog hair.

The young nurse, all fidgety and fired up, looked ready to chase him down, but I caught her wrist.

"Ms. Watson, that's your husband, isn't it? What a goddamn asshole!" She was fresh-faced, probably just out of nursing school, her eyes blazing with that righteous fury.

I shook my head, a tired smirk tugging at my lips. “Don't sweat it. We're through. If he'd hung around, I'd probably be dead already."

They said anger was a slow poison for women, eating us from the inside out.

Maybe that was why, after three years of biting my tongue and swallowing my rage, the cancer roared back, hungrier than ever.

Once the shitshow cleared, the doctor got back to work, penciling in my surgery.

Maybe he felt a pang of guilt, because even though my vitals were barely scraping by, they fast-tracked me.noveldrama

I couldn't help but wonder if that little talisman from the neighbor lady was actually pulling some weight.

The docs had all but written me off, saying a second relapse meant I was screwed, but this time? The surgery was a fucking breeze.

Guess life cutting me a break, even a tiny one, bought me a few more days.

Crazy as it sounds, I almost wanted to thank Jude for being such a dick today. If he'd played the doting husband, I'd probably have dropped dead from the sheer shock.

In the ICU, the pain was a monster-white-hot, like my skull was splitting open.

This wasn't my first dance with a scalpel, but holy hell, it hurt worse than before. Maybe because this time, I knew nobody gave a damn if I made it.

Back in Kasenland for my first surgery, Mom was there, her hand in mine, whispering I'd be okay.

Thinking of her now, my throat closed up, and tears burned their way out. If I'd just listened to her—really listened—would she still be here? Would I be less of a wreck?

The nurse at my bedside, checking the monitors, leaned in and softly wiped my tears with a tissue. "Hey, you nailed it today-surgery was a slam dunk. It's just the anesthesia fading; it'll sting like a motherfucker for a bit. You've got this, though."

Her eyes were swimming with pity, and I didn't need a crystal ball to know why.

I'd probably become the hospital's juicy gossip—not for the gash on my head, but because my husband sauntered off with his sidepiece, leaving his dying wife to fend for herself.

But fuck it—I didn't care anymore. Breathing meant I still had a chance, and that was enough.

The days after the surgery slogged by, and my phone didn't buzz once. No calls, no texts, just silence. I was too drained to give a shit anyway.

The sweet old lady in the next bed and I pooled our cash for a caregiver, which saved me a few grand. Small victories, right? At least I'd take those.

In the dead of night, when the world felt like it was holding its breath, I'd grab my phone and scroll, chasing ghosts.

Jude had gone radio silent. No calls, no texts, not even a lazy WhatsApp emoji to pretend he gave a shit.

But I couldn't dodge the flood of him and Vivian. She was everywhere, her life splashed across my screen like a bad movie I couldn't quit watching.

Vivian was the queen of oversharing, vomiting her perfect little moments onto Ins like it was her diary.

Even in the gossip group-where she didn't even belong-she was the sun, and everyone else just orbited her drama.

[Mr. Carson's got it bad, huh? She gets a tickle from allergies, and he's flying her to Sorene City for some beach vibes?]

[Us peasants are out here grinding proposals, while she's getting massages and sipping piña coladas. Life ain't fair.]

[I mean, we're not doing that bad, right? At least we're not his wife, swallowing heartbreak with her morning coffee.]

[Real talk—Mr. Carson's screwing around right under her nose, and she's just... fine with it? Damn.]

Every time they tossed around their names, I felt their eyes on me, even through the screen.

To them, I was a walking punchline-the pitiful wife with a glowing "loser" sign over her head, clinging to Jude's cash while pretending I didn't hear the whispers.

They'd erased who I used to be. I was a designer once, the kind who made people stop and stare at my work.

When I first joined the company, they'd yanked me into that gossip group, no idea I was Jude's wife.

Back then, I was one of them, laughing over every spilled secret. Now? I was a shadow, forgotten, just another name in the chat nobody thought about twice.

I was about to toss my phone across the room when it lit up. A client. I hadn't touched that project in months and had zero clue why they were calling.

The second I picked up, they came at me like a freight train. "Ms. Watson, if Carson Group's done with us, just say it don't leave us hanging like assholes! "Mr. Carson's dodging every call, there's no one to deal with-what the fuck's going on with our project? Who's eating the losses here?"

Their anger roared through the line, louder with every word. Slowly, it clicked: Jude had bailed on work-my old project included-to play Romeo with Vivian in Sorene City.

I let them scream themselves hoarse, then said, voice barely holding together,

"I'm sorry, I just had surgery. I don't run company stuff anymore."

I'd learned the hard way—when it was not your screw-up, you go soft. Why the hell should I mop up his mess?

The guy on the phone stumbled, his fire dimming. "Wait, surgery? You're in the hospital?"

"Yeah. If you can't get him, try his secretary. I'm no use to you,"I said.

Then I hung up, my eyes catching Vivian's latest post in the group—a sun-soaked selfie, all smug smiles and ocean waves. I shut my phone off, like that could shut off the ache in my chest.

Jude used to notice everything about me. My peanut allergy? He'd grill waiters like a detective, pick out every nut from my plate with this quiet focus that made my heart twist.

Now Vivian was whining about dog fur, and he's carting her off to the coast for "fresh air." Sure. Made sense. Why wouldn't it?

The scar from my surgery burned, a sharp, crawling pain that felt like it was clawing into my soul. I sank my teeth into my lip, hard enough to sting, and lied to myself, " It's nothing. You're fine."

But the next day, the pain turned vicious, sinking its teeth deeper.

The doctor gave me that look-kind but no-nonsense. "Ms. Watson, those meds I mentioned? You need them for at least six months.

"This is your second relapse. You can't keep betting on luck to pull you through."

He was right, but those pills might as well have been made of gold. And the pain —it was breaking me, grinding me down until I couldn't think straight.

So, hating every second of it, I swallowed what was left of my pride and dialed Jude.

"Hey. Jude's in the shower. What do you need?"Vivian's voice cut through the line, lazy and sharp, like she'd been waiting for me to crack.

My heart seized, the pain in my chest blooming brighter than the scar, heavier than the betrayal I'd been pretending I could carry.