Chapter 1
My husband, William Smith, is a top clinical psychologist in the industry, an expert at analyzing minds and counseling people through trauma.
During the year I was spiraling into depression after losing my arm, he was the one who pulled me out of the abyss, teaching me to accept my scars and live well.
Yet now, for the sake of my friend Olivia Vance, he openly makes trade-offs, betraying me without a second thought to choose her.
Olivia stood beside me, using her left hand to gently tug at my empty sleeve.
"Sophie, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to do this, but I lost my right arm. Without my right hand, I can't do anything."
My body stiffened, and a cold chill washed over my heart.
We were fellow patients bound by a shared fate. I had lost my left arm, and she had lost her right. We used to comfort and support each other, promising to recover together and step out from the shadow of our missing limbs.
But in the end, the best friend I had trusted with all my heart took away my hope without a single shred of guilt.
William looked at the dejected Olivia, then spoke to me in a placating tone, "Sophie, you're stronger than her, and you handle stress better. It's just waiting for the next batch. Don't be so stubborn."
He reached out and gently stroked the stray hairs on my forehead. Every time he showed favoritism, he would put on this gentle display, causing me to soften and compromise again and again.
But this time, I only found it incredibly ironic. I tilted my head and used my only remaining hand, my right one, to forcefully swat his hand away.
William's hand froze in mid-air, and for the first time, a look of shock appeared in his eyes.
"William, because I'm strong, I'm the one who's supposed to back down? Because I handle stress well, my years of waiting and my heart full of hope deserve to be given away with a casual sentence from you?"
Before I could finish, Olivia began to sob loudly. She crouched on the therapy chair, looking as if I had pushed her to the brink. "Sophie, please don't fight. It's all my fault. I'm sorry... I was greedy. It was wrong of me. I know you've been waiting three years for this. I shouldn't have taken it..."
"If you shouldn't have taken it, it's still not too late to give it back."
William quickly stepped forward, bending down to help Olivia up. He carefully supported her arm, terrified she might get hurt. "Alright, don't cry. It's not your fault."
Once, those hands had shielded me from the wind and rain, wiped away my tears, and held up my hopes.
"Sophia, enough. She's already this consumed by guilt, and you're still pushing her? The spot has already been finalized. Dwelling on it is pointless. You're clearly more stable and stronger than her. Why can't you be a little more understanding?"
It was always like this. Always the same excuse.
Right in front of me, William laid two psychological evaluation sheets flat on the desk, as if to show that his actions were merely a professional duty. "Look at the assessment results."
Olivia Vance: Severe psychological trauma, poor stress tolerance. Dated yesterday.
Sophia Clark: Mild psychological trauma, good stress tolerance. Dated one year ago.
The glaring difference in dates was laid bare before my eyes. The report from a year ago had long since expired, yet over this past year, no one had bothered to re-evaluate me.
"Sophia, you've been through trauma too. Tell me," he questioned me in that professional, gentle tone he was so skilled at using, "with assessment results like these, as the attending doctor, shouldn't I prioritize intervention?"
He spoke with high-sounding words, standing on the moral high ground and looking down at me.
"Yes," I said.
I answered so quickly that William reached out to take my right arm, assuming I had finally been convinced by his professional ethics and was willing to back down.
This gesture was a signal exclusive to the two of us. In the past, whenever I didn't want to do my physical therapy, he would take my arm to soothe me, making me feel needed and restoring my hope.
"Sophie, you're always the most sensible. Don't worry, I'll make it up to you," he whispered gently in my ear.
This time, I didn't pull away. Because there wouldn't be a next time.
