The wheelchair catches on the threshold again. I jerk it back, adjust the angle, and push through the entrance of Eastwood Rehabilitation Center with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this twice a week for three years. The receptionist—Cara, young, always too cheerful—waves at me from behind the desk. "Morning, Olivia! Dr. Patel's running a few minutes behind." I nod and wheel myself toward the waiting area, past the motivational posters that stopped motivating me somewhere around month six. *Your only limit is you.* Right. My limit is the titanium rods in my spine and the nerve damage that turned my legs into decorative accessories. The accident took a lot from me. My career as a dancer. My independence. Three years of my life spent relearning how to exist in a body that doesn't work the way it used to. But I have Miles. My husband—the man who sat beside my hospital bed every single day, who learned how to help me dress, who modified our entire house so I could navigate it. The man who proposed to me six months after the accident, when I was still convinced no one would ever want me like this. I check my phone. A text from him: *Thinking about you. Love you, Liv.* I'm typing a response when I hear his voice. My fingers freeze over the screen. That's Miles's voice, coming from down the hall. From the corridor that leads to the private offices, the ones patients aren't supposed to access. I look at Cara. She's absorbed in her computer, clicking through something with her earbuds in. I wheel myself forward slowly, quietly. The voice gets clearer as I approach a door marked *Private—Dr. Hayworth Only.* "—couldn't let it happen." Miles's voice, strained in a way I've never heard it. "I couldn't let her marry him." My hands stop moving. The wheelchair sits motionless in the middle of the hallway. "You cut your own brother's brake lines." A woman's voice—Dr. Hayworth, I assume. Clinical, but with an edge of something that might be horror. "You could have killed him." "I know what I did." The words are so flat, so matter-of-fact, that for a moment I think I've misheard. "Derek survived," Miles continues. "He walked away. She didn't. And I got exactly what I wanted." My breath stops. Derek. His brother. The man I was engaged to before the accident. The man whose car I was in when— When the brakes failed. When we went off the road. When I woke up in a hospital bed and learned I'd never walk again. "And the hysterectomy during her spinal surgery?" Dr. Hayworth's voice is quieter now. "She still doesn't know?" The world tilts. "She can never know." Miles's voice is steady, certain. "She'd leave me, and I'd rather see her hate me than lose her to him." I should move. I should wheel myself away, get out of this hallway, go somewhere I can breathe. But my hands won't grip the wheels. Hysterectomy. The word circles in my head, refusing to land. I asked him once, two years ago, why we hadn't talked about kids. He'd held my hand and said the accident had been enough trauma, that we had time, that he just wanted me healthy first. I believed him. I believed every word he ever said. The door opens. Dr. Hayworth steps out first—a tall woman in her fifties, dark hair pulled back, white coat crisp. She sees me and stops dead. Then Miles appears behind her. Our eyes meet. For one second, I see it—the flash of panic, the calculation. Then his expression shifts into concern, the face he always wears when he looks at me. Gentle. Protective. Loving. "Liv." He steps forward. "What are you doing back here?" I stare at him. At this man I married. This man I trusted with every broken piece of me. This man who broke me. "How much did you hear?" His voice is soft, careful. Dr. Hayworth glances between us. "I should—" "Stay." The word comes out harder than I intended. I look at her. "Tell me what he had removed from my body while I was unconscious." She pales. "Liv, let's go home." Miles moves closer, reaching for my wheelchair. "We can talk about this—" "Don't touch me." He freezes. "Tell me." I'm looking at Dr. Hayworth now, and I can see the answer in her face before she speaks. "Tell me what he did." She swallows. "Mrs. Langford, I think this conversation should happen between you and your husband—" "My name is Chen." My voice cracks. "I never took his name. And you're going to tell me right now, or I'm going to scream until security comes and I'll make sure everyone in this building knows what kind of doctor you are." Miles's jaw tightens. Dr. Hayworth looks at him, then back at me. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "During your spinal surgery, there were complications. Internal bleeding. Your uterus was damaged beyond repair. The surgical team made the decision to perform an emergency hysterectomy to save your life." The words are clinical. Professional. Lies wrapped in medical terminology. "Except that's not what happened," I say. "Is it?" She doesn't answer. I look at Miles. "Is it?" His face is unreadable. For three years, I've watched this man, studied every expression, learned to read his moods. Right now, I don't recognize him at all. "No," he says finally. "That's not what happened."