The Vulture's Vow
I was being lifted, the world tilting crazily. A voice cut through the fog. This one's critical. Prep him for surgery now. Get ahold of his family to sign consent.
A wave of something—adrenaline, maybe just pure terror—cleared my head for a second. I tried to lift a hand that felt like it belonged to someone else. "My wife… Claire… she's busy. I can sign."
Before the words fully left my mouth, another voice sliced through the chaos. A voice I knew better than my own.
"Help him first!"
My wife, Claire, wasn't in court. She wasn't arguing a case. She was here, in the ER, clinging to the arm of the man who had just run me down. Her voice was sharp with a panic I hadn't heard in years.
She pushed past me, a blur of motion, and confronted the doctor. "He just had heart surgery. His condition is far more delicate!"
She didn't even glance at my gurney. At the blood that was turning my shirt from blue to a dark, sticky crimson.
"I'm the patient's wife," she declared, her voice ringing with the authority she used in a courtroom. "I can vouch for the other driver. I’m a lawyer. I understand the liability, and I accept it."
"But ma'am, your husband's injuries appear more severe…" the doctor stammered, clearly thrown.
Claire’s gaze was fixed on the other man. "He'll be fine. He's tougher than he looks. Just take care of the driver. If anything happens, it's on me."
Claire! The name screamed in my head. Who is your husband?
And as if to answer, while I was still bleeding in a hallway, my life hanging by a thread, she helped the man who hit me file a lawsuit against me.
1
The impact hadn't just thrown me; it had dragged me. I remembered the scrape of my back against the pavement, a sound that felt like it was happening inside my own skull.
They had me prepped for the OR, a green-lit room of salvation at the end of the hall. But it was snatched away. My wife, Claire, steered the man who hit me—the man she was supposed to be suing—into that room instead. Because she was a top-tier lawyer, because she was willing to sign a waiver absolving the hospital of any malpractice, I was left behind.
She finally looked at me then, at the blood soaking through the sheets. Her brow furrowed, but not in concern. It was annoyance. She turned away and began comforting the driver, her voice a low, soothing murmur I hadn't heard directed at me since our honeymoon.
"It's going to be okay," she whispered to him. "I'll handle this whole accident. You won't have to worry about a thing. You won't bear any responsibility. Just focus on getting better."
Accident? Was that what you called it when a man inexplicably swerved across two lanes to hit you? When he dragged you for twenty feet without braking?
You're my wife, Claire. How could you abandon me to defend the man who did this?
The pain sharpened my focus, clearing the fog. I stared at her, my mind a storm of disbelief and heartbreak. She didn’t notice. Her entire world was focused on the man she’d just saved.
Only when they wheeled him into the operating room did she turn away. I thought, naively, that she would come to me, offer some twisted explanation. Instead, she walked right past my gurney without a second glance and approached the police officer who was taking notes.
After a brief, hushed conversation, the officer asked about her relationship to the incident.
She didn't hesitate. "I'm the driver's defense attorney. I'm also the wife of the man he hit."
The cop’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced from her to me, then back again.
"Ma'am, with all due respect, this seems pretty clear-cut," he said, tapping his notepad. "The driver ran a red light and failed to yield to a pedestrian. It's all on the dashcam. Even for a lawyer like you, that's an open-and-shut case."
Claire was unfazed. "The driver experienced a sudden cardiac event while operating the vehicle. His doctors can confirm this. He had no malicious intent. According to state law, this should be treated as a medical incident, not a traffic violation."
She cited statutes and precedents with a chilling calm. After a quick call to the hospital, the officer begrudgingly conceded her point.
And just like that, I was no longer a victim. I was an inconvenience.
I lay there in the hallway, a piece of hospital furniture, watching the staff hurry past. Claire, her legal duties done, bought a bouquet of flowers from the gift shop and stood vigil outside the operating room. Not my operating room. His.
I reached out, my fingers brushing the fabric of her coat. "Claire," I rasped. "It hurts so much."
She flinched away as if I'd burned her. "Stop acting."
She pulled a tissue from her purse and meticulously wiped the spot my bloody fingers had touched. Her face was a mask of cold fury. "I didn't ask you to get hit by a car, Leo. Don't be so dramatic."
The world went light. A strange floating sensation took over. The sheet beneath me turned from damp to saturated. A young intern rushed over, glanced at my pupils, and then pressed gently on my abdomen.
He screamed. "Doctor! Get Dr. Matthews in here, now! This patient has a lacerated liver! He's bleeding out!"
Claire was right there. She must have heard. But she didn't turn. Her eyes were glued to the OR doors, which were just swinging open.
As a team of medics descended on me, Claire rushed toward the man being wheeled out.
"Doctor, is he okay?" she asked, her voice trembling. "His heart condition is so complex. Will there be any permanent damage?"
The surgeon shook his head. "He's fine. It was just a transient ischemic attack brought on by shock. We ran a full workup. He's perfectly healthy."
Just then, they pushed my gurney past them. The surgeon’s head snapped around, his eyes widening at the river of red I was lying in, a foul, metallic smell now rising from the sheets.
He grabbed his pager. "Code Blue! Code Blue, Trauma One!"
The hospital’s PA system exploded to life with a repeating, urgent chime. "Rapid Response Team to the ER. Rapid Response Team to the ER."
I was rushed toward surgery, but the nurse was frantic. "We need a signature on the consent forms! Where did his wife go?"
"The lawyer for the other driver?" a young resident asked.
"Yes! She was just here!"
"She's gone," the resident said, sounding disgusted. "She arranged a transfer for her client to a private cardiac center upstate. I saw her getting into the ambulance with him. I called out to her, but she just looked at me and the doors closed."
"What do we do?" the nurse cried. "His spleen just ruptured. We can't wait!"
"There's no choice. We operate now and deal with the paperwork later."
I was plunged back into the green-lit room. The world faded, but then, halfway through the procedure, it came rushing back. My body has a bizarrely high tolerance for anesthesia. I was awake, paralyzed, a spectator to my own dissection. I saw the sweat beading on my surgeon's forehead, the grim, focused faces of the nurses.
The nurse reading my vitals choked back a sob. "BP is dropping. He's not responding."
"We're out of O-negative! Call the other blood banks, now!"
"I can't reach his wife. The calls go straight to voicemail."
"What the hell is wrong with this woman?" another voice muttered. "She won't answer our calls, but she just sent a text to the patient's phone. Looks like… a notice of intent to sue?"
Sue? Sue me for what?
Through the haze, I heard the surgeon say, his voice dripping with disbelief, "Her husband is dying on my table, and she's helping the guy who hit him sue him for… intentional damage to property and negligence."
Me?
She was suing me. On behalf of the man who tried to kill me.
Who was this guy?
As the alarms on the machines began to scream in a single, deafening chorus, the world finally, mercifully, went black.
2
I thought that was it. The end. But I woke up.
The first thing I saw was the acoustic tile of a hospital ceiling. I had never been so happy to see something so boring.
A doctor came in, checked my chart. "You're a very lucky man," he said. "We'll need to keep you in observation for a while. Let us know if you feel any discomfort."
I nodded weakly. As he left, the door opened again. It was Claire.
She wasn't alone. She was holding hands with him. The driver.
"Still alive?" Claire said, her voice devoid of any warmth. "I have to admit, seeing the amount of blood you lost, I didn't think you'd make it. Since you did, I guess we can proceed with the lawsuit."
She dropped a thick legal folder onto my lap. The papers slid onto the thin hospital blanket. And there, on the top page, was his name: Asher Vance.
Asher. The Asher. The ghost from her college photo albums, the name she’d let slip once after too much wine. Her "one that got away."
"After reviewing traffic camera footage and the dashcam from Mr. Vance's car," Claire said, her voice formal, rehearsed, "we've concluded that you intentionally stepped in front of his vehicle. Mr. Vance is therefore suing you for damages and personal injury."
Intentionally?
I stared at her, the woman I had loved for eight years. The world swam, a fog of tears blurring her sharp, cold face. I had almost died on a cold steel table, and she felt nothing. Worse than nothing. She felt… opportunistic.
"If the surgery has muddled your memory, allow me to refresh it," she continued. "The crosswalk signal was green. All other pedestrians were moving. You alone stopped in the middle of the street and stood there until the light changed and Asher's car was already proceeding through the intersection. Your behavior suggests intent."
A laugh, raw and broken, escaped my lips. It sounded like tearing fabric.
She didn't know why I stopped? She really didn't know?
That car—a midnight blue Audi A5—was the birthday present I’d bought for her. The custom license plate holder with the twin hearts, the one I’d picked out myself, was still on the back.
My birthday gift to my wife. Driven by another man. Was I not allowed to take a second look?
"You're right," I said, my voice hoarse. "It was intentional."
Claire's professional mask faltered. A flicker of surprise crossed her face.
"I just wanted a better look," I whispered. "I wanted to see which man was driving my wife around in the car I bought her. Which man was so important that she'd miss my birthday dinner to be with him."
Asher stepped forward, a pained, fragile expression on his face. "Leo, man, it wasn't like that. My health… it's not good. I needed her to drive me to a specialist. I paid her for her time, I swear. It was purely a professional relationship. Don't read too much into it."
Claire looked at him with an expression of profound tenderness that twisted the knife in my gut.
"You don't have to explain anything to him, Asher," she said softly, then turned back to me, her face hardening again. "As long as you admit it was intentional, that's all we need. Get well soon. You'll be served with a court summons once you're discharged. All damages and associated costs from this accident will be your sole responsibility."
She tossed the summons onto the bed and turned to leave. Just then, the door swung open and three men in sharp suits walked in. I recognized them vaguely as colleagues from her firm, the kind she never brought home.
Their eyes landed on Asher immediately. "Hey, we heard what happened and came as soon as we could," one of them said, clapping Asher on the shoulder. "We went to that other hospital, but they said you were transferred back here to deal with some paperwork. Are you feeling okay?"
"Don't you worry about a thing, man," another one chimed in, his gaze flicking toward me with contempt. "We've handled a dozen of these insurance scammers. We'll make this guy pay until he's bankrupt."
"So, what's the deal?" the first one asked. "Is the scumbag cooperating, or are we going to have to play hardball?"
Asher shot me a look of pure triumph. "It's fine," he said, his voice laced with false magnanimity. "As long as he's willing to apologize, I don't think we need to be too harsh."
The lawyers' eyes all swiveled to me. It clicked for them. I was the scumbag. I was the scammer.
One of them noticed my chart hanging at the foot of the bed. He read the words 'ruptured spleen, lacerated liver' and pointed a finger at me. "Well, look at that. Serves you right. Talk about karma. Tried to cash in on a payday and almost cashed out for good. Pathetic."
"The universe has a way of dealing with trash like you," another added.
They stood there, tearing me apart with their words, while Claire stood by Asher's side, whispering in his ear, completely oblivious.
A nurse bustled in then, holding a clipboard. Her eyes found Claire. "There you are! We've been paging you for days! Your husband is in critical condition and you're only showing up now? Go to the admissions desk and pay the bill. It's long overdue."
The lawyers froze, their mouths half-open. They stared from me to Claire, the cogs turning in their heads.
"He's your husband?" one of them whispered.
Claire just gave a curt "Mm-hmm," and, taking Asher by the arm, led him out of the room. Her colleagues exchanged awkward glances, muttered apologies, and then followed her out, taking the gift basket they'd brought for Asher with them.
Claire never paid the bill. I paid for my own near-death experience.
As I swiped my credit card, the chip reader beeping forlornly, an alert pinged on my phone. A charge notification from my emergency-use-only credit card. The one I’d given her for the down payment on our first home—the money my parents had left me.
The Grand Sterling Hotel. Presidential Suite. 'Couples' Romance Package.' Ten thousand dollars.
I tried to call her, but it went straight to a "this number has been disconnected" message. She'd blocked me.
A nurse helped me shuffle back to my room. On the way, I dialed 911.
"Hello," I said, my voice shaking with a cold, clear rage. "I'd like to report credit card fraud. And… an illegal transaction of services taking place at the Grand Sterling Hotel."
For eight years of marriage, Claire had insisted we keep our finances separate. A pre-nup. Her idea. Everything was split 50/50, down to the groceries. I even had to pay for my own health insurance.
And now, while I was fighting for my life, while I was draining my savings to pay for the damage her lover had done, she was using my inheritance—my dead parents' money—to pay for a romantic getaway with him. She hadn't even asked if I was going to live or die.
The thought was so monstrous it made me sick.
Just then, my surgeon, Dr. Matthews, approached me in the hallway. "Leo, you have a sister, why didn't you tell us? You've been going through this all alone. I took the liberty of looking up your emergency contacts."
A sister? I was an only child.
When I pushed open my door, I saw her. A woman in a tailored suit with sharp, gold-rimmed glasses, perched on the edge of my bed. She turned, and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes spread across her face.
"Your sister heard you were in trouble," Dr. Matthews said cheerfully. "Flew in all the way from London to see you." He exchanged a few words with this "sister" of mine, promising to have dinner soon, then left us alone.
She surveyed the room, a multi-patient ward with thin curtains for privacy.
"A ruptured liver, and this is where you're recovering? All alone?" Her voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a tightly controlled anger. "This is the woman you moved mountains for, Leo."
She looked at me, her composure finally cracking. "And you couldn't call me? You couldn't let me know you were here, alone, fighting for your life?"
"You're busy," I mumbled, looking at the floor. "In London…"
After my parents died, Hannah Jiang, the daughter of my father's business partner and my childhood friend, had become my de facto family. She was only a month older than me, but she had always been my protector.
She had been vehemently against my marriage to Claire. When I’d ignored her warnings and eloped, she’d accepted a position at her firm's London office and left. We’d exchanged holiday calls, but that was it. I was too ashamed to tell her how right she’d been.
"Busy?" Her voice rose, shaking with emotion. "When have I ever been too busy for you? When have I not dropped everything when you needed me?"
She grabbed my hand, her eyes glistening. "Do you have any idea what would have happened to me if you had died? Your father trusted me to look out for you. He put you in my care. How could I face him if I let you die alone in a place like this?"
That broke me. The dam I’d built inside myself crumbled. I collapsed into her arms and sobbed, all the pain and fear and betrayal pouring out of me. If my dad were still alive, Claire would never have dared. She would never have cheated on me while I lay dying, never have sued me for the privilege.
The door flew open with a bang. It was Claire. She saw me in Hannah's arms and her face contorted with rage.
"No wonder you called the cops on me!" she shrieked, her voice echoing down the hall. "You just got out of surgery and you're already cheating! You have a wife, and you're in here holding another woman!"
Hannah released me. On pure instinct, I spun around and slapped Claire across the face.
"You know damn well why I called the cops!" I yelled. "You used my inheritance to book a presidential suite for you and your boyfriend! You deserved to get caught!"
Claire laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "Oh, I see. You got caught, and now you're lashing out."
Hannah stepped forward and, with a move so swift I barely saw it, kicked Claire’s legs out from under her.
"He was almost killed because of you," Hannah snarled, standing over her. "And you have the audacity to come in here and play the victim?"
Claire scrambled backward on the floor until she recognized Hannah's face. The fight instantly drained out of her.
"Hannah," she stammered. "You don't understand. He set us up. He reported Asher for prostitution. He transferred five thousand dollars to Asher from my account to make it look transactional. Asher is still being held at the station because of him! We can't explain it!"
The five thousand dollars. That was my doing. A little trick I’d picked up from eight years of living with a lawyer. I knew Asher had been unemployed since returning to the States. I knew he had no assets to his name. I knew exactly how it would look to the police.
Hannah just smiled. A cold, terrifying smile.
"Five thousand dollars doesn't get you held overnight, Claire. You're a lawyer. You know the procedure better than anyone." Her voice dropped. "It's the pattern, isn't it? The police must have found multiple transactions. Payments made after… services were rendered. Repeatedly."
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