Chapter 9
I stared at the headline, my surgeon's brain immediately cataloging the image — the placement of the bandages, the amount of blood visible, the fact that he was conscious in the photo.
"The cuts are superficial," I said automatically. "Horizontal, not vertical. He wasn't trying to die."
Dominic looked at me carefully. "You're sure?"
"I've seen hundreds of cases. This is a cry for help, not a genuine attempt." I set the phone down, my hands perfectly steady. "He wants attention. Specifically, mine."
As if on cue, my phone rang. Nathan's mother.
I declined the call.
It rang again. And again.
The fourth time, a text: **[Aria, Nathan is in the hospital. He keeps calling your name. Please come. Whatever happened between you two, he's still a person who needs help. Have some compassion.]**
"She's good," I muttered. "The guilt trip is expertly crafted."
Dominic sat beside me, his presence solid and grounding.
"What do you want to do?" he asked quietly. No pressure. No judgment.
"Nothing." I set my phone face-down. "I'm not responsible for his mental health. I was his wife, not his therapist."
Dominic nodded once. "Good."
But by morning, the media had twisted the story into a weapon aimed directly at me.
**"Heartless Ex-Wife Refuses Hospital Visit While Cross Heir Fights For Life"**
**"Sources Say Aria Sinclair's Cruel Rejection Triggered Breakdown"**
**"Gold Digger or Ice Queen? The Woman Who Drove Nathan Cross to Despair"**
Anonymous "insiders" — clearly Serena's handiwork — painted me as a cold, calculating woman who'd planned the entire divorce to marry up.
The comments were brutal:
*"She was planning this the whole time. Using Cross as a stepping stone to Ashford."*
*"No wonder he's suicidal. Imagine your wife leaving you for your own boss."*
*"She's a doctor and won't even visit him? Heartless."*
I scrolled through them numbly, each accusation landing like a small stone against glass that was already cracked.
Dominic gently took my phone away.
"Don't read those."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not. And you don't have to pretend with me." He cupped my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "These people don't know you. Their words are worthless."
"But my patients might see these. My hospital—"
"Already handled." His voice was calm but firm. "My legal team issued a cease-and-desist to every outlet running unverified claims. My PR department is preparing a statement. And my media company—"
"Your media company?"
He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "I may own the parent company of three of those news outlets."
"Dominic!"
"What? It's a good investment."
Despite everything, I laughed. It felt like releasing a valve on pressure that had been building for days.
But the public storm was about to get worse.
That afternoon, a video went viral — security footage from inside the hospital.
Nathan, supposedly on suicide watch, was pacing his private room, phone in hand, visibly agitated but clearly coherent and physically fine.
Then Serena walked in.
The audio was muffled but partially audible:
*"Is she coming?"*
*"Not yet. Keep the bandages visible for the photographers."*
*"How long do I keep this up?"*
*"Until she breaks. She always breaks eventually."*
Someone had leaked this footage directly to social media. Within hours, it had millions of views.
The narrative flipped overnight.
**"EXPOSED: Nathan Cross's Fake Suicide Attempt Was Manipulation Tactic"**
**"The Real Victim: How Aria Sinclair Survived Years of Emotional Abuse"**
**"Serena Walsh Caught on Camera Coaching Hospital Performance"**
The court of public opinion turned with vicious speed.
I looked at Dominic over dinner.
"This 'someone' who leaked the footage..."
He took a very deliberate bite of his salmon.
"Hm?"
"Dominic."
"The hospital has excellent security systems. Sometimes footage just... finds its way to the right people."
I shook my head, but couldn't suppress my smile.
"You're terrifying, you know that?"
He reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Only for you, my love."
"The cuts are superficial," I said automatically. "Horizontal, not vertical. He wasn't trying to die."
Dominic looked at me carefully. "You're sure?"
"I've seen hundreds of cases. This is a cry for help, not a genuine attempt." I set the phone down, my hands perfectly steady. "He wants attention. Specifically, mine."
As if on cue, my phone rang. Nathan's mother.
I declined the call.
It rang again. And again.
The fourth time, a text: **[Aria, Nathan is in the hospital. He keeps calling your name. Please come. Whatever happened between you two, he's still a person who needs help. Have some compassion.]**
"She's good," I muttered. "The guilt trip is expertly crafted."
Dominic sat beside me, his presence solid and grounding.
"What do you want to do?" he asked quietly. No pressure. No judgment.
"Nothing." I set my phone face-down. "I'm not responsible for his mental health. I was his wife, not his therapist."
Dominic nodded once. "Good."
But by morning, the media had twisted the story into a weapon aimed directly at me.
**"Heartless Ex-Wife Refuses Hospital Visit While Cross Heir Fights For Life"**
**"Sources Say Aria Sinclair's Cruel Rejection Triggered Breakdown"**
**"Gold Digger or Ice Queen? The Woman Who Drove Nathan Cross to Despair"**
Anonymous "insiders" — clearly Serena's handiwork — painted me as a cold, calculating woman who'd planned the entire divorce to marry up.
The comments were brutal:
*"She was planning this the whole time. Using Cross as a stepping stone to Ashford."*
*"No wonder he's suicidal. Imagine your wife leaving you for your own boss."*
*"She's a doctor and won't even visit him? Heartless."*
I scrolled through them numbly, each accusation landing like a small stone against glass that was already cracked.
Dominic gently took my phone away.
"Don't read those."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not. And you don't have to pretend with me." He cupped my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "These people don't know you. Their words are worthless."
"But my patients might see these. My hospital—"
"Already handled." His voice was calm but firm. "My legal team issued a cease-and-desist to every outlet running unverified claims. My PR department is preparing a statement. And my media company—"
"Your media company?"
He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "I may own the parent company of three of those news outlets."
"Dominic!"
"What? It's a good investment."
Despite everything, I laughed. It felt like releasing a valve on pressure that had been building for days.
But the public storm was about to get worse.
That afternoon, a video went viral — security footage from inside the hospital.
Nathan, supposedly on suicide watch, was pacing his private room, phone in hand, visibly agitated but clearly coherent and physically fine.
Then Serena walked in.
The audio was muffled but partially audible:
*"Is she coming?"*
*"Not yet. Keep the bandages visible for the photographers."*
*"How long do I keep this up?"*
*"Until she breaks. She always breaks eventually."*
Someone had leaked this footage directly to social media. Within hours, it had millions of views.
The narrative flipped overnight.
**"EXPOSED: Nathan Cross's Fake Suicide Attempt Was Manipulation Tactic"**
**"The Real Victim: How Aria Sinclair Survived Years of Emotional Abuse"**
**"Serena Walsh Caught on Camera Coaching Hospital Performance"**
The court of public opinion turned with vicious speed.
I looked at Dominic over dinner.
"This 'someone' who leaked the footage..."
He took a very deliberate bite of his salmon.
"Hm?"
"Dominic."
"The hospital has excellent security systems. Sometimes footage just... finds its way to the right people."
I shook my head, but couldn't suppress my smile.
"You're terrifying, you know that?"
He reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Only for you, my love."