Love Past Its Prime

In our seventh year of marriage, I walked into Mercy General Hospital with an insulated thermos of hot soup, just like I did every other week.

Passing by the doctors' lounge, I heard the boisterous laughter of his colleagues. One of the surgical residents was loudly referring to a female patient as "Graham's better half" and "the wifey."

I stopped dead in my tracks. I listened closely, waiting for Graham to correct them. Instead, he just chuckled, silently accepting the title with a hint of amusement.

In that single moment, I quietly set the thermos down on the receptionist's desk and walked away without looking back.

He chased after me into the parking lot, his voice echoing with frustration as he scolded me for being completely unreasonable.

"Savannah just got out of open-heart surgery. She is emotionally fragile, and any spike in her heart rate could be dangerous. I was just playing along with the guys to keep her calm!"

"I am a surgeon. As my wife, can't you be a little more understanding of my job?"

In the past, a stunt like this would have made me completely lose my mind. I would have screamed, cried, and turned the entire hospital upside down until I got an apology.

But standing there today, my heart felt absolutely hollow. All that hysterical, agonizing desperation I used to feel had simply evaporated into thin air.

Graham got home late that night. I was already lying in bed.

He texted me the night before, claiming his stomach was acting up and he was going to sleep in the on-call room. When I tried to call him, his phone went straight to voicemail.

That was why I woke up at the crack of dawn today, spending hours simmering a rich bone broth to bring to the hospital.

If I hadn't caught him looking perfectly healthy and flirting shamelessly with Savannah, I probably would have still been making excuses for him.

The mattress dipped under his familiar weight.

Graham wrapped a heavy arm around my waist, pulling me against his chest. "Baby, why didn't you wait up for me?"

A few months ago, I would have immediately wrapped my arms around his neck and eagerly melted into his touch.

Tonight, all I wanted to do was sleep.

When I didn't answer, he gently picked up my left hand, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.

"The soup was amazing. I finished every last drop. Just be careful next time, okay? You burned your hand."

"Let me put some ointment on it for you."

The cooling sensation of the burn cream quickly spread across my palm. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of my hand, then grabbed his towel and headed for the shower.

While the water ran, his phone started buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand.

As a cardiothoracic surgeon, Graham frequently got emergency calls in the middle of the night. Afraid he was missing a critical page, I reached over and hit answer.

Before I could even say hello, a sickeningly sweet voice floated through the speaker.

"Dr. Ashford. Did you like the dinner I sent over today? I just learned a new recipe. I'm making you Coq au Vin tomorrow."

Before I could process her words, the phone was violently snatched right out of my hand.

"Haven't I told you a thousand times never to answer my phone?"

In his aggressive haste, his fingers dug directly into my fresh burn. The sheer force of his grip peeled the blistered skin right off my hand. Blood immediately welled up, dripping onto the pristine white sheets.

I sucked in a sharp breath, clutching my bleeding hand.

Graham quickly muttered into the phone that he would call her back later and hung up. He grabbed my wrist, glaring down at me.

"You are so stubborn. You can barely cook, yet you insisted on making that complicated soup. Now look at you. You hurt yourself for absolutely no reason."

"Sit down. I need to clean this up again."

It was the middle of summer. If a raw wound like this wasn't disinfected properly, it would get severely infected.

I sat silently on the edge of the bed. He pulled a first-aid kit from his study and knelt on one knee in front of me to redress the wound.

He let out a heavy sigh, his tone softening dramatically. "Does it hurt, baby?"

I didn't answer him. I just stared blankly at the wall, feeling his grip loosen. He gently blew cool air over the raw skin to ease the sting.

As he stood up to put the medical supplies away, a small object slipped out of his laptop bag and clattered onto the floor.

I picked it up. It was a custom acrylic keychain featuring a cartoon dog and a little cat. Etched at the bottom was a tiny inscription.

"To my protective guard dog, Graham. From your little kitten, Savannah."

I placed the keychain flat on the nightstand, my voice completely level. "That was very thoughtful of her."

The air in the bedroom seemed to freeze solid.

Graham stared at me, his eyes wide with utter confusion. "You want me to keep it? You aren't going to throw it away?"

I looked up at him, feigning genuine puzzlement. "Why would I want you to throw it away? It is a sign of a wonderful doctor-patient relationship. I should be happy for you."

His shock was entirely justified. The old Ruby would have exploded in a jealous rage and purged the apartment of anything breathing another woman's name.

But tonight, these pathetic little mind games couldn't even trigger a ripple in my chest.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but a deafening crack of thunder shook the building. The lights flickered and completely died. The power was out.

I involuntarily flinched. He instantly pulled me into his arms, petting my hair. "Don't be scared. I am right here. Your husband is right here."

I had terrible night blindness and a crippling fear of the dark.

Graham kept murmuring sweet reassurances while feeling around the drawers for the emergency candles.

Right at that moment, his phone lit up the dark room.

Savannah's hysterical, sobbing voice was piercingly loud in the silent bedroom.

"Dr. Ashford, the power just went out in my building. I am so terrified. My chest is tight. I feel like I can't breathe."

Graham instantly dropped the unlit candle on the dresser, snatched his car keys, and sprinted for the door.

"Savannah is having heart palpitations. I need to go check on her. I will be right back. Just light the candle yourself."

His phone went with him, plunging the room back into pitch blackness. I blindly groped the surface of the dresser, finally locating the candle and his silver lighter.

But the candle was totally defective. The wick was buried in the wax. It wouldn't catch fire.

In my rising panic, I tripped over the rug and slammed my waist violently into the sharp corner of the oak nightstand. A blinding, agonizing pain shot through my entire body.

As my legs gave out, I instinctively threw my hands out to catch my fall.

My freshly burned and bandaged hand took the full impact against the hardwood floor. The wound ruptured again. I lay there on the cold wood, curling into a tight ball, gasping for air like a dying fish.

The storm outside raged on. I pulled myself up and sat silently on the living room sofa for three straight hours.

Graham never came back.

Early the next morning, he finally walked through the front door, looking completely exhausted. Smeared just below his collar was a faint, powdery pink lipstick stain.

He frowned the second he saw me. "I forgot my keys last night. I knocked for twenty minutes. Why didn't you open the door?"

The torrential rain had hammered against the windows all night. I had been wide awake, staring into the dark, and there hadn't been a single knock.

"The bed at that cheap hotel was like a slab of concrete. My back is killing me."

If this were the past, hearing him complain about back pain would have had me instantly rushing over to give him a massage.

Today, I just sat at the dining table, taking slow, methodical bites of my cereal. I didn't even spare him a glance.

He walked over to the table, clearly trying to smooth things over.

"I swear I just slept at the hotel right across the street. Look, I even brought you that greasy bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich from the corner deli. You haven't had this in forever."

I glanced at the foil-wrapped sandwich but didn't reach for it. He was right. It used to be my favorite.

When Graham and I first got married, we were broke. We were both working entry-level jobs and drowning in a massive mortgage. That cheap, greasy deli sandwich was all we could afford. I ate it almost every morning for seven years.

My phone screen suddenly lit up with an Instagram notification.

Savannah had just posted a photo of a luxurious candlelight dinner with a sprawling city view.

The caption read: "A 6'2" cardiothoracic surgeon who saves lives by day and cooks for me by night. The best guard dog in the entire world."

I calmly locked my phone and set it face down. Graham picked up a piece of crispy bacon from the sandwich and held it right up to my lips.

"Eat it while it is hot, baby. It tastes awful when it gets cold."

The heavy scent of grease and butter invaded my nose, turning my stomach. I instinctively swatted his hand away.

The bacon hit the floor.

Graham slammed his hand flat against the table, a cold sneer forming on his lips.

"Are you seriously throwing a tantrum just because I left you alone for a few hours? I literally left you the candles. Are you five years old?"

"I am a doctor. I have an ethical obligation to my patients. If Savannah had gone into cardiac arrest last night, the guilt would have destroyed both of us!"

I picked the bacon off the floor, dropped it into the trash can, and walked toward the bedroom without looking back. "I completely respect your profession. I am not upset."

Graham refused to let it go. He stormed after me and grabbed my wrist.

"We have been married for seven years, Ruby. Playing hard to get is a pathetic game for teenagers. You need to stop watching those toxic reality shows. They are rotting your brain."

When I was younger, I loved watching romantic dramas, crying and laughing over fictional love stories. Graham always sat next to me, mocking me, calling me a brainless romantic who lived in a fantasy world.

Now that I was older, anytime I didn't cater to his exact mood, he accused me of acting out a script.

If I ever dressed up to go out, he would look me up and down with absolute disdain and say, "Bright pink? Really? How old do you think you are?"

He would stand there with his arms crossed, watching me scrub my makeup off and change back into oversized sweatpants before he finally looked satisfied.

Hearing these familiar, cutting words used to slice my heart to ribbons. Today, it felt like absolute static. I gave him a look of pure pity, like I was staring at an absolute idiot.

I walked straight to my closet, pulled out a sleek, black V-neck cocktail dress, spritzed on my most expensive Tom Ford perfume, grabbed my designer clutch, and headed for the door.

"Where exactly do you think you are going?" His angry voice snapped behind me.

"I have plans."

The old Graham never bothered asking where I was going.

In his arrogant mind, he fully believed that no matter how far I wandered, I would always come crawling back to his side.

But today, he was suddenly acting completely out of character, demanding answers.

I ignored him entirely, took the elevator down to the garage, and didn't find peace until my tires were peeling out onto the main road.

Harper, my best friend from college, was launching her new high-end fashion boutique today. She had invited me for the ribbon-cutting ceremony and the celebratory champagne brunch.

Her eyes lit up the second I walked through the glass doors. "Oh my god. It has been years since I saw you looking this fierce. Is your controlling husband not going to throw a fit?"

I laughed, handing her a thick red envelope as a congratulatory gift. "It is my body. I will wear whatever I want. He doesn't own me."

She grabbed the envelope with a massive, greedy grin. "Exactly! And you are looking like an absolute knockout."

We spent the afternoon drinking expensive champagne and mingling with local socialites. It hit me just how incredibly long it had been since I allowed myself to genuinely relax and have fun.

Meanwhile, my phone, safely tucked away on silent mode, was buzzing a hole through my clutch.

Harper, whose cheeks were flushed pink from the alcohol, nudged me. "Twelve missed calls. I am pretty sure your husband is having a total meltdown."

I flipped the phone face down on the marble bar and signaled the bartender for another pour.

Hours later, the party finally died down. I walked out to the neon-lit street to wait for my Uber.

Standing right there under the streetlamp, radiating pure fury, was Graham.

"Ruby Westwood, you are unbelievable. You ignore my calls for hours to come out here and get blackout drunk? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

He aggressively waved my Uber driver away, practically threw me over his shoulder, and dumped me into the backseat of his SUV.

In the cramped, suffocating space of the car, he pinned my wrists down. His dark eyes were burning with that familiar, possessive hunger I used to crave.

He lowered his head, pressing his lips toward mine. I immediately turned my face away and shoved hard against his chest.

"Are you done throwing this little tantrum? You are my wife. Am I not allowed to touch my own wife anymore?"

The alcohol buzz instantly vanished from my system. I sat up perfectly straight, calmly smoothing out the wrinkles in my dress. My voice was ice-cold. "Start the car and drive."

Graham's job was exhausting, so whenever he actually had a night off at home, I always craved physical affection.

When he used to sit on the couch reading his medical journals, I would lean in for a kiss. He would push me away with the exact same freezing rejection I just gave him.

He used to pour buckets of ice water over my desperate need for love. Now, the tables were finally turning.

Seeing the absolute, unyielding rejection in my eyes, he froze for a long moment. Finally, he slammed his fist against the steering wheel, aggressively threw the car into gear, and sped off into the night.

When we got back to the apartment, I walked into the bedroom, gathered his pillows and blankets, and dumped them in the guest room. "I drank a lot today, and I am a light sleeper. Since you have to operate tomorrow, you should sleep in here so I don't wake you."

Hearing my flat, undeniable tone, Graham's face darkened into a furious scowl. He didn't say a single word, just aggressively marched into the guest room and slammed the door shut.

Lying alone in the middle of my massive king-sized bed, I remembered how I used to cling to his side all night.

Now, I realized that having the entire bed to myself was pure luxury.

When I woke up the next morning, Graham was already gone. Sitting on the kitchen island was a paper bag with a cold deli sandwich and a lukewarm coffee.

More greasy bacon and eggs. I was so incredibly sick of it.

I tossed the entire bag into the trash, grabbed some cat food, and headed downstairs to feed the strays. While waiting for the elevator, I scrolled through LinkedIn and saw a job posting from the corporate marketing firm I used to work for.

Three years ago, when Graham was promoted to Vice Chief of Surgery, I sacrificed my own rising career to stay home and make sure his life was perfectly managed.

I immediately typed out a message to my old boss, who used to highly value my work. He replied almost instantly with an invitation to chat.

Right as I smiled at the screen, my mother's contact photo flashed.

I answered, and her booming voice practically shattered my eardrum.

"Ruby! I am at Mercy General right now. I just saw Graham hugging some sickly-looking girl in the hallway."

"And your mother-in-law is here feeding her homemade soup! Get down here right now. I am going to tear them apart!"

The second my mom hung up, Graham's number popped up on the screen.

His voice was panicked and rushed. "Baby, your mom totally misunderstood what she saw. Whatever she just told you, please don't be mad."

Through his speaker, I could hear my mother screaming obscenities in the background, mixed with his mother's frantic, desperate apologies.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, it was lunch hour. Graham had booked a private VIP dining room near the cafeteria.

Standing right outside the door, I saw my mother with her hands on her hips, aggressively pointing her finger at Graham and his mother. "How do you two sleep at night? How can you treat my daughter like this?"

My mother-in-law frantically waved her hands. "Please, please calm down! I just saw this poor girl, all alone, an orphan with a failing heart. I felt bad for her, so I cooked her a meal. You are completely misunderstanding the situation!"

My mom was a force of nature. She immediately pivoted her rage back to Graham. "And what about you? Is hugging your patients part of their medical treatment now? If I hadn't walked around that corner, how much longer were you going to hold her?"

Graham rubbed his temples, looking completely exhausted. "She just finished a grueling treatment. She lost her balance, and I just caught her. That is it."

My mom scoffed loudly. "Oh, how convenient! You two have all the perfect excuses, so my daughter and I are just the crazy villains here, right?"

My mother-in-law finally noticed me standing by the door. She practically sprinted over and grabbed my hands. "Ruby, sweetheart, please don't misunderstand..."

I smiled warmly at her. "I don't misunderstand at all. And I am not angry. This is exactly what a dedicated doctor and his supportive family should do."

Seeing the completely genuine smile on my face, my mother-in-law blinked in absolute shock. She couldn't force a single word out.

After all, I used to run to her house in tears, begging her to talk sense into her son.

She stared at me for a long, unsettling minute before quietly retreating to her chair, utterly silent.

I grabbed my mom's hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze, silently telling her to back down.

Just then, the door to the private room swung open. A group of Graham's surgical colleagues walked in, flanking Savannah and joking loudly.

"Come on, Graham, you can't just leave the wifey waiting outside the room! That is just bad manners."

Several of these doctors had literally attended our wedding. When they finally registered my face standing right there in the doorway, their arrogant smiles froze instantly.

Savannah stepped gracefully into the room, playing the perfect, innocent angel. "You must be Ruby. Please don't take anything they say out of context. They are just making silly jokes. Dr. Ashford is just a brilliant, compassionate man who hates seeing his patients suffer."

I knew this script entirely too well.

Two years ago, another obsessed patient pulled the exact same stunt. She called Graham in a panic during the worst blizzard of the decade.

That night, I was eight months pregnant, trapped in my freezing car on a blocked overpass.

Graham was less than a mile away from me. But instead of coming to get me, he turned his car around to "save" that female patient from a fake panic attack.

The baby I was supposed to welcome into the world never drew its first breath.

When Graham finally showed up at the emergency room hours later, he offered zero comfort. Instead, he stood over my hospital bed and screamed at me.

"You were eight months pregnant! Why the hell were you even out driving? You brought this on yourself!"

"I am a doctor. My patients' lives will always come first. You are married to a surgeon, do you seriously have zero common sense?"

The memory of that agonizing tragedy used to make me want to rip my own heart out. But looking at the man standing in front of me now, I didn't even feel hatred. I just felt nothing. I had completely, thoroughly stopped caring.

I linked my arm through my mom's, ready to walk away. But Savannah suddenly reached out and grabbed my sleeve. "Ruby, you can be mad at me, but please don't take this out on Dr. Ashford."

My eyes immediately dropped to her wrist. Strapped to her pale arm was the exact same limited-edition luxury watch I had bought for Graham last month for his birthday.

A flash of genuine panic crossed Graham's eyes. He quickly stepped forward and grabbed my arm. "The store had a buy-one-get-one promotion! I figured you didn't need two identical watches, so I just handed the spare to her."

I didn't even bother looking at his face. I just hummed a vague acknowledgment and forcefully yanked my arm away from both of them.

As I pulled away, Savannah let out a theatrical, piercing gasp. "Oh my god! Dr. Ashford, I am so sorry. Your pendant!"

I looked down at the floor. Shattered into pieces on the linoleum was a priceless antique jade pendant. It was an heirloom left by Graham's late father. He guarded it with his life and never let anyone touch it. Not even me.

But the braided red silk cord that had held the pendant was currently hanging directly around Savannah's neck. The bright red thread was glaringly obvious.

Graham completely lost his composure. Panicking, he reached out, desperately trying to grab my hand.

I avoided his touch and turned to the crowd, my voice echoing in the dead silent room.