I had been running a high fever for seven straight days.

I didn’t know why I said it.
Maybe because part of me still believed Luca would stop me if I made too much noise.
“Please.”
The driver opened the back door.
“Get in.”
I don’t remember most of the ride.
Only fragments.
Streetlights.
My forehead against cold glass.
The driver asking whether I was conscious.
My phone vibrating repeatedly in my purse.
Luca calling.
Of course.
He noticed I was gone.
For seven days, he ignored my fever.
The moment I left the house, suddenly he cared where I was.
I didn’t answer.
When we reached the emergency department, the driver came around and helped me out.
I barely made it through the doors.
A triage nurse looked at me once and stood immediately.
“What’s your temperature?”
“I don’t know.”
She touched my arm.
“Wheelchair.”
Someone appeared with one.
Everything moved quickly after that.
Blood pressure.
Pulse.
Oxygen.
Questions.
“How long have you had the fever?”
“Seven days.”
“Any nausea?”
“Yes.”
“Dizziness?”
“Yes.”
“Confusion?”
“Sometimes.”
“Any recent wounds?”
I looked at my ankle.
“Yes.”
The nurse followed my eyes.
“What happened?”
“I thought it was a scrape.”
“You thought?”
I swallowed.
“My husband has been treating it.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“Treating it how?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the first time I heard myself say it out loud.
I don’t know.
My own husband had been putting something on my wound for nearly a week.
And I had no idea what it was.
They took me into a private treatment bay.
A few minutes later, a doctor entered.
Dr. Marcus Hale.
He introduced himself quickly while pulling on gloves.
His expression was calm.
Professional.
Until he saw my ankle.
“Who dressed this?”
“My husband.”
He looked up.
“When?”
“Every day this week.”
He removed the remaining gauze.
Then he stopped.
Completely.
The room changed.
Doctors are trained not to frighten patients.
You learn to read what they are trying not to show you.
Dr. Hale’s face told me everything I needed to know.
Something was very wrong.
He leaned closer.
Not touching the wound at first.
Studying it.
Then he gently rotated my ankle.
I cried out.
“Sorry.”
His eyes narrowed.
He looked at the puncture mark.
Then at the skin around it.
Then back at me.
“Jessi.”
“Yes?”
“Did you injure yourself with a needle?”
“No.”
“Any injection there?”
“No.”
“Animal bite?”
“No.”
“Did you puncture this area accidentally?”
“No.”
He looked at me for a long second.
“Has anyone put anything into this wound?”
My mouth went dry.
“My husband cleans it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t know.”
He turned toward the nurse.
“Full labs. Blood cultures. Toxicology. Surgery consult now.”
My heart began pounding.
“Surgery?”
Dr. Hale kept his voice level.
“We’re concerned about a severe soft-tissue infection. We need to move quickly.”
Then he looked back at my ankle.
Something near the puncture mark caught his attention.
He took a sterile swab.
Carefully collected a sample.
Then asked the nurse for a specimen container.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer immediately.
That frightened me more than if he had.
Another doctor entered.
They spoke in low voices.
I caught only fragments.
“Unusual pattern.”
“Possible introduction.”
“Preserve the dressing.”
“Do not discard anything.”
Preserve?
My heartbeat hammered in my ears.
Then Dr. Hale turned to the head nurse.
His voice changed.
No hesitation now.
No softness.
“Call hospital security.”
The nurse nodded.
“And notify the police.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He looked directly at me.
“Call the police right now.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Why?”
He stepped closer and placed both hands gently against my shoulders.
“Jessi, look at me.”
I tried.
My vision was blurring.
“You’re very sick, but you’re in the right place.”
“Why are you calling the police?”
“We need to treat you first.”
“What did you find?”
More people entered the room.
A surgical team.
Another nurse.
Someone attached a new IV line.
Voices layered over one another.
Then I heard Dr. Hale say quietly to someone near the foot of the bed,
“Bag the original dressing. Everything goes to evidence.”
Evidence.
That word cut through the fever.
I turned my head toward him.
“What exactly do you think happened to me?”
He looked at me.
And for the first time, I saw something beyond concern in his expression.
Suspicion.
Not toward me.
Toward whoever had been treating that wound.
A nurse pushed medication through my IV.
The ceiling lights began to blur.
My body felt suddenly heavy.
As darkness closed in, one final memory surfaced.
Luca sitting beside me three nights earlier.
The bandage removed.
Something small and metallic between his fingers.
And his voice telling me,
“Hold still. This will only sting for a second.”
My last coherent thought before everything went black was not about the infection.
It was about my husband.
What had Luca been putting into my ankle?
And why had he spent seven days trying to keep me away from a hospital?

The first thing I heard when I opened my eyes was the steady beep of a monitor beside my bed.

For several seconds, I didn’t know where I was, and then I remembered the ambulance lights, Dr. Hale’s expression, the word evidence, and the terrible realization that I had finally escaped the one person I had trusted most.

My eyes felt heavy, and my mouth was so dry that swallowing hurt.

I tried to move my left leg.

Pain exploded through my ankle.

A nurse immediately noticed.

“Don’t move that leg yet.”

I turned my head toward her.

“Where am I?”

“St. Matthew’s Medical Center.”

“What happened?”

She smiled gently.

“You were taken into surgery.”

The word surgery made my heart pound.

“What did they find?”

Before she could answer, the door opened.

Dr. Marcus Hale walked in wearing a dark blue surgical jacket, and the look on his face told me that whatever had happened while I was unconscious had not been minor.