chapter fourteen

                                    

                                          


MONICA, LYING in the sterile stillness of the hospital room, felt like a stranger to herself. Since the accident, something inside her had shifted. The fog that had surrounded her for so long seemed to be lifting, revealing a new, unsettling clarity. She no longer saw Kayce as the man she had once known, the man she had married. It was almost as if a veil had been ripped away, and what lay beneath disturbed her more than she wanted to admit.
It was subtle at first—a quiet disconnection, an inexplicable heaviness in the air between them. But now, as the days passed, it felt like her entire perception of him had changed. She saw the guilt etched into his face, the way he hovered over her with a weight in his eyes that she couldn't quite understand. It wasn't just about her accident. It was about something deeper, something he wasn't saying. And she had the nagging suspicion that he had been lying to her for a long time.
Her thoughts wandered back to her brother's death, a tragedy that had shattered her world. At the time, Kayce had been her rock, supporting her through the grief, offering comfort in the worst moments. But now, the details of that time felt clouded with doubt. She had trusted him with everything, never once questioning his version of events. But since the accident, it was as though her instincts had sharpened, revealing cracks in the foundation of their life together.
There were things he wasn't telling her—she could feel it, deep in her bones. The way he avoided eye contact when she asked about their son, the way he seemed distracted, as if carrying the weight of a secret too heavy to bear. It gnawed at her, the suspicion creeping in like a slow, cold current, wrapping around her heart.
The morning of her first physical therapy session, the feeling of disconnection only deepened. Her body was healing, but her spirit felt fractured. Her grandfather had come to visit, offering his usual comforting presence, but even his warmth couldn't chase away the growing unease in her chest.
"Grandfather," she had asked quietly, her voice trembling just enough to betray her exhaustion, "would it be alright if Tate and I stayed with you for a while?"
Her grandfather had looked at her with kind but unwavering eyes. "Your place is with your husband, Monica," he had said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of tradition. "A wife belongs beside her man, especially in times like these."
His words had stung more than she had expected. Normally, she would have nodded, accepted his wisdom without question. But this time, something inside her rebelled. She wasn't sure if it was the strain of the accident, the haze of recovery, or the mounting suspicion that Kayce was hiding something—but she didn't want to go back. Not to him. Not yet.
When her grandfather left, the room fell silent again. She sat alone, staring at the empty chair where Kayce usually sat, his presence an ever-present reminder of the man she wasn't sure she knew anymore. She thought back to her brother's death—how Kayce had been there through every painful moment. But now, every comforting word, every gesture of support felt hollow, like there was more to the story than he'd let on.
Her stomach twisted. Had he lied to her back then too? She couldn't shake the feeling that something about it didn't add up. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy between them, and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Kayce was keeping something from her. He always carried guilt with him—it was a constant part of who he was—but what if this time, the guilt wasn't just for things he couldn't control? What if he had made decisions, done things that she didn't know about, things that had contributed to the worst moment of her life?
When Kayce finally returned to the room that afternoon, Monica could barely look at him. He greeted her with a tired smile, one that used to bring her comfort, but now only served to deepen her unease.