My Husband Buried Our Kids. So I Buried His Legacy. Fair Trade. Chapter 07
Lucian couldn’t sit still anymore.
He called. I picked up.
His voice was pure fire now—not the cold anger from before. This was rage.
“How long are you going to keep this up?! Do you have any idea how many surgeries got canceled today? Half the doctors on that list are in full panic mode—no one can focus!”
“This is a hospital, Elara. Not your personal dumping ground. Patients are waiting. Surgeries are scheduled—and you’re dragging everyone into your mess. What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“Pull the announcement. Now. Come to the hospital and apologize in person. Give everyone a year’s worth of bonus compensation. Do it now. I’m not asking.”
My voice stayed flat.
“They signed funding agreements. The assignment is legal. If they can’t fulfill their contracts, they don’t deserve to be doctors.”
He was breathing hard on the other end. Then I heard him mutter something under his breath. A curse.
“You’re insane. Fine. You want to play hardball?”
“Elara. Remember this. YOU’RE the one who started this war.”
Click. He hung up.
I sat there. Staring at the dark screen. No satisfaction. None.
I used to tell myself he wasn’t unloving. Not to me. Not to the kids. He was just cold. Just busy. Just bad at showing it.
But he could get angry. He could lose control. He could curse.
He just never felt that way about us.
Ten years. I spent ten years with someone who never loved me.
And I watched him kill my children.
…
The week that followed, I didn’t respond to anything. Not the online hate. Not the texts. Nothing.
Lucian, trying to get a rise out of me, went public.
He took Mira to every conference. Every gala. Matching outfits. Hands intertwined. Smiling for the cameras.
At the press conference for a new drug I’d helped fund, he stood at the podium, leaning into the mic.
“Miss Voss made significant contributions to this research. Without her, this project wouldn’t have succeeded.”
They exchanged a look. Camera flashes exploded.
The headline ran:
[Cardiac Specialist Dr. Drake and Wife Shine at Research Gala—Power Couple, Inspiring Love Story]
He reposted it. Didn’t correct the “wife” part. Just captioned it:
[New drug out. Happy.]
The comments flooded in.
[Congratulations!]
[What a perfect match!]
[Medical royalty!]
One person commented:
[Dr. Drake, isn’t this a little inappropriate?]
Two minutes later, that comment was gone.
I read through everything. Screenshotted it all. Sent it to my lawyer.
Maybe my silence bored them. Maybe they thought I’d given up.
Then one night, an anonymous text came through. A video link.
I opened it.
Exam room. Mira sat on the edge of the bed, her chest partially exposed—a burn wound, bandages half-peeled.
Lucian stood over her, still in his surgical gloves, cotton swab and ointment in hand.
Mira’s voice came through the speaker, whiny, almost playful.
“Dr. Drake… it hurts so bad. Why don’t you just use your fingers instead? Be gentler.”
Lucian didn’t answer. On screen, he paused for a second. Then he pulled off his gloves. Dropped the swab.
Video ended.
The sender added a face-covering-its-mouth emoji.
[Dr. Sinclair, don’t get the wrong idea. Just changing a dressing.]
I typed two words back:
[I won’t.]
They were going to Africa together anyway.
Whatever they did. I didn’t care.
I really didn’t.