Isolation in the Wreckage

Cold antiseptic stung the raw scrapes along Clara Vance's arm. Inside an examination room at Oakmont General Hospital, dried blood stiffened her clothes as she watched blankly while a nurse slid an IV needle into the back of her hand.

"Clear the hall! Coming through!"

Heavy fumes of gasoline and blood hung thick in the air. A wheeled stretcher rattled past the open doorway, giving Clara a brief glimpse of the man lying on it. Blood drenched nearly every inch of his clothes, and a jagged chunk of windshield jutted straight out of his twisted calf.

The doctors' voices blurred into a distant hum, fading in and out. Injured victims from the highway pileup poured in like a tide, each arriving gurney accompanied by endless groans and frantic crying down the corridor.

"Where is this patient's family? Have they made it in yet?"

Silence briefly settled over the room, as though everyone waited for someone to answer. Reality, however, rarely went as one hoped.

Taping the IV line in place, the nurse spoke gently. "Ma'am, your injuries aren't nearly as severe as some of the others out there, though this was still a multi-car pileup. You ought to call your family. Having someone here with you will make getting a thorough checkup much easier."

Clara gave an appreciative nod, pulled her phone from her bag, and dialed.

When the line connected, the voice on the other end wasn't her husband's, and a quiet weight settled in her chest.

"Ms. Vance. Mr. Mercer is tied up in a meeting right now and isn't available. Can I ask what you're calling about?"

It was Declan Hayes, Desmond Mercer's assistant. Seven years ago, Desmond had insisted that their marriage remain strictly confidential. Because of that rule, seven years had passed with Declan still formally addressing her as Ms. Vance, never once acknowledging her as Mrs. Mercer.

Before Clara could get a single word out, a sweet female voice drifted clearly through the receiver. "Mr. Hayes, is Desmond nearly done? We really need to head out—Hazel is getting restless waiting down in the lobby."

A muffled rustle came over the line, as though a hand had covered the mouthpiece, yet every word still carried through clearly. "Right away, Ms. Monroe. I'll let Mr. Mercer know immediately."

Ms. Monroe. Chloe Monroe. Seven years on, Desmond really couldn't let her go. Clara's lips curved into a bitter, ironic smile. Declan certainly knew who to flatter. One word from Chloe had him notifying Desmond at once, whereas for Clara, Desmond was perpetually stuck in a meeting.

Everyone around Desmond had learned to lie on his behalf while his beloved Chloe stood right there beside him. Meanwhile, Clara remained the foolish Ms. Vance, naive enough to think he might actually show up.

Seconds later, Desmond's familiar voice came over the line, flat and thoroughly uninterested. "Who's calling? What do they want?"

"Just Ms. Vance, sir," Declan answered in a smooth, businesslike tone. "Nothing pressing."

Clara ended the call first—something she had never done before. Watching paramedics rush more critically injured victims past her doorway, a heavy sorrow rose in her chest. Had she been the one dying on a trauma table tonight, not a soul would have known.

Because of her drug allergies, Clara had always been extra cautious around injections, leaving her quietly afraid of falling ill at all. Seeing that she was all alone, the kind nurse still made time amid the chaos to check on her occasionally for any allergic reaction.

At one point, Clara faintly caught the nurses murmuring in sympathy nearby, pitying how she had nobody at her side to look after her.

Complete strangers showed more warmth than the man she had married, who had never given her anything beyond cold indifference. A bleak impulse briefly stirred inside her—wondering whether getting hurt far worse, or even dying, would earn a single glance from Desmond.

Pulling out her phone again, she opened WhatsApp. Her last message to Desmond sat unanswered from three years ago, sent during an earlier hospital stay. Staring at that ignored text made her chest ache all the more. She had known how this ended three years back; trying again tonight made no sense.

Back then, a heavy pane of glass had fallen suddenly from overhead. Clara had lunged forward to shield her daughter, Hazel Mercer, taking deep cuts from the shattering fragments while a terrified Hazel buried her face in Clara's bloodied arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

Yet when Clara switched over to Instagram, that same little girl was proudly showing off a new post, declaring that the ice cream Ms. Monroe bought her was the best in the whole world.

Taken at a newly opened amusement park, the photo showed Chloe beaming brightly beneath Desmond's fond, indulgent gaze, while Hazel grinned between them holding a giant ice cream cone.

So that was where Chloe had been rushing to take them earlier. Clara couldn't quite name what moved through her, yet oddly enough, an eerie calm settled over her.

Once her IV finished dripping and her scrapes were dressed, she picked up her medication and walked out of the hospital alone, moving in a hollow daze as though detached from her own body.

Back at the Mercer house, housekeeper Martha Higgins hurried into the foyer to greet her. "Mrs. Mercer, you're home."

Clara managed a faint smile. Under this entire roof, Martha was the sole person who ever called her that.

Catching sight of the pharmacy bag and Clara's slow, stiff gait, Martha's expression instantly turned serious with worry. "Mrs. Mercer, are you hurt? What happened?"

"Just a few bruises from a minor traffic accident," Clara answered, sounding worn out yet calm. "Nothing serious."

"A traffic accident? Wrecks are always serious!" Martha fretted, her voice tight with concern. "Where are you hurt? Did you see a doctor?"

Across seven years, Martha had always been warm and attentive, treating her far better than her own husband ever had—a thought that left a bitter ache in Clara's chest. After assuring Martha she was fine, Clara turned and started slowly upstairs.

Halfway up, she heard Martha on the phone in the foyer below. "Mr. Mercer, you ought to get home right away. Mrs. Mercer was just involved in a traffic accident."

Clara paused on the steps. Whenever she needed Desmond, she went through his office line and nearly always reached Declan, yet Martha could dial his private cell directly. Even at the hospital, at her most vulnerable, breaking that rule had never once crossed Clara's mind. She had accepted it completely—a chilling testament to the power of habit.

"Yes, Mrs. Mercer doesn't look badly hurt, though she was definitely injured," Martha continued downstairs.

Clara didn't linger to hear the rest. Pushing through the ache in her body, she walked slowly into the bedroom, waiting to see whether Desmond would actually come home.

Before long, Martha came upstairs carrying a warm bowl of oatmeal, concern written across her face. "I brought something easy on your stomach, Mrs. Mercer. You need to keep your strength up while you heal. I've already reached Mr. Mercer—he should be home soon to stay with you."

Clara gave a quiet, grateful nod.

Martha's promise of "soon," however, dragged out to three full hours. Darkness had completely fallen outside by the time Desmond finally returned.

Hearing the car pull into the driveway, Martha let out a breath of relief and hurried to the front door to meet him.

Desmond stepped inside holding little Hazel's hand, while his daughter trailed behind him with a drawn-out whine. "Dad, Martha already told us Mom was fine. Why did we have to rush back so early? I missed the whole light show! And Ms. Monroe got all upset too—you saw her face, didn't you?"

Standing out in the upstairs hallway, Clara felt her entire body turn cold at the sound of their voices below. Every bright, careless word from the entryway cut deeper, leaving her numb and frozen right where she stood.