Being Near You Makes Me Sick

The exact moment my marriage to Vicky shattered wasn't a screaming match. It was the moment she looked me dead in the eye, grabbed her ex-boyfriend by the wrist, and pulled him into a hotel room.

Her mouth had curved into a glacial, mocking smile. Youve been suspicious for so long, she had said, her voice dripping with venom. Why don't you see for yourself?

Within seconds, the heavy, muffled sounds of ragged breathing and undeniable intimacy bled through the heavy oak door. Standing in that carpeted hallway, I felt something inside my chest quietly and permanently snap. It was over.

From that day forward, I stopped being jealous. I stopped picking fights.

Much later, when a prominent gossip radio show blared a rumor about her and Wesley Mercer, she lunged for the dial, snapping it off before frantically turning to me to explain.

I just looked at her, my voice perfectly level. "I know its fake."

But she kept talking, kept justifying, terrified that I was misunderstanding the situation.

I couldn't help but laugh softly. I patted her shoulder, a gesture devoid of any real warmth. "Relax," I told her. "I'll keep your secret. I won't let your family know."

The words had barely left my mouth when she slammed on the brakes, the color draining entirely from her face.

1.

The affection I held for Vicky Hastings died the moment she walked into that hotel room with Wesley Mercer.

So, when I began hearing their names tethered together againpeople in my periphery gushing about how they were a match made in heavenI didn't experience the mental breakdown I once would have expected.

Wesley Mercer was a prominent lifestyle influencer. He had built a massive following on TikTok and Instagram by romanticizing his life as an Ivy League grad and a Stanford alum.

A month ago, Vicky made her debut on his feed.

It was a Live Photo. Just a brief, two-second flash. But in that fraction of a moment, Vickys unmistakable reflection was caught in the glass of a coffee table, right next to a crumpled, glaringly obvious box of Durex.

The internet works fast. Within hours, sleuths had identified the woman in the reflection. The Live Photo rocketed to the top of the trending pages.

Wesleys comment section was a war zone of excitement:

[Wes, tell us the truth! Are you finally off the market?]

[Wait, is that the CEO of Vanguard Holdings?]

[Holy shit, the woman in the reflection looks like a total boss.]

When I saw the post, I froze in the middle of my living room. That bright blue box of condoms screamed the nature of their relationship. A creeping, icy numbness spread through my veins.

When Vicky finally came home, I waited in the dark for an explanation.

She offered me exactly four words, tossing her keys onto the entryway table.

"It's just a misunderstanding."

When I didn't say anything, she let out a short, irritated exhale. "Ive already had my PR team scrub the trending tags. It's handled."

After that, Wesleys name haunted my existence. I heard the nurses gossiping about him during my shifts at the hospital. The algorithm, cruel and precise, force-fed me every single one of his updates.

The rumors of their rekindled romance only burned brighter, consuming the internets imagination.

2.

The following weekend, Vicky told me she was going on a business trip.

I took the opportunity to drive up to a luxury spa resort in the Catskills with a friend. I needed the quiet.

Instead, I found Vicky and Wesley.

I saw them by the outdoor heated pools. Vicky was in a sleek white bikini, her perfectly toned shoulders draped in an oversized, expensive-looking men's blazer. Wesley stood next to her in a linen button-down, the collar unbuttoned deep, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked completely at ease, exuding a lazy, magnetic confidence.

Walking side by side, they looked like they had stepped straight out of a Vogue editorial.

Vicky leaned in, tilting her head to catch whatever he was saying. I watched them share a private, synchronized smile.

Later, I saw her emerge from the changing rooms. She had swapped the swimsuit for casual white loungewear, but she was still wearing his blazer.

I watched them walk into a private VIP lounge.

Something ugly and impulsive hijacked my brain. I followed them. I pushed open the heavy mahogany door, the words spilling out of my mouth before my rational mind could stop them.

"Vicky, did you really just bring him here to sleep with him?"

The room went dead silent.

I froze. They weren't alone. A room full of executives and investors turned to stare at me.

Vicky looked up. Her eyes were devoid of any emotionjust a flat, chilling indifference.

She broke eye contact with me, turning her head slightly.

"Davis," she said to her assistant, her voice like ice. "Close the door."

I forgot how to breathe. The public humiliation, the sheer disdain in her dismissal, suffocated me. I had zero desire to stay at the resort. I found my friend, made an excuse, and drove back to the city immediately.

Vicky didn't return to our townhouse until late that night.

Logically, I knew I had embarrassed her that morning, and a part of me felt guilty. But beneath that guilt was an uncontrollable, surging tide of betrayal. The sour, burning knot in my chest refused to be swallowed down.

I cornered her in the hallway.

"Are you seeing him, Vicky?" My voice shook. "What exactly is your relationship with him?"

She offered me a single, sideways glance. She looked at me like I was a stranger bothering her on the subway.

"What do you want our relationship to be, Simon?" she countered smoothly. "Did you even stop to think about how your little stunt today would affect his reputation moving forward?"

My brain short-circuited. My heart plummeted into my stomach.

Her coldness was a scalpel, sliding perfectly and painlessly between my ribs. She stared me down with those freezing eyes, then simply turned and vanished into the shadows of our living room.

3.

We plunged into a bitter cold war. Vicky was suddenly "traveling for work" constantly.

The final, catastrophic explosion happened at a boutique hotel owned by the Vanguard Group.

I was walking past the lobby when I saw themVicky and Wesley, heading toward the private elevators. They pressed the button for the penthouse.

I followed them up.

"Vicky."

They both stopped in the middle of the plush hallway and turned to look at me.

"Is this what your business trips are?" I asked, my voice echoing in the quiet space. "Booking suites with your ex-boyfriend?"

She let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"Alright," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Youre so convinced I'm screwing around behind your back? You want me to prove it?"

She reached out, grabbed Wesley by the bicep, and physically pulled him toward the suites door. She swiped her keycard. The light flashed green.

She turned back to me, her dark, unfathomable eyes pinning me to the floor.

"Well? Aren't you coming in to watch?"

Before I could form a single word, she dragged him inside and slammed the heavy door shut. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.

My eyes burned fiercely. My throat closed up. I stood there in the empty hallway, totally stripped of my dignity.

I forced my legs to move, making it to the elevator bank. Just as the doors opened, my phone vibrated. An unknown number.

I answered it. No one spoke. There was only the low, heavy, ragged sound of a man exhaling into the receiver.

I stood paralyzed for what felt like hours.

That muffled, deeply intimate sound was the final nail in the coffin. Vicky and Wesley. They had crossed the line.

A sharp, violent sting hit the bridge of my nose. My marriage was dead.

I hailed a cab outside. Sitting in the back seat, watching the city lights blur by, I found myself scrolling through Wesleys digital footprint.

Internet sleuths had dug up his old, private Twitter account from his high school and undergrad days. They had pieced together a comprehensive timeline of his romance with Vicky.

They had gone to the same elite prep school. They started dating right after graduation, before both heading to Columbia University, studying in different departments.

Scrolling through Wesleys old posts, I was introduced to a version of my wife I had never met.

College-era Vicky remembered his obscure food allergies and kept antihistamines in her purse. She patiently followed him around the city, taking aesthetic photos for his early blog. She studied men's fashion just to help him curate his wardrobe. She went on trips to Disney, to the Hamptons, to the beach.

The account was a digital museum of teenage devotion. Every single word he wrote proved how deeply she loved him.

[She literally spent hours researching streetwear just to help me pick out outfits.]

[She knows my allergens better than I do. I swear she loves me more than I love myself.]

Underneath that specific post, an old comment read: [Wes, I'm a freshman from your high school! Everyone at Columbia knows about you and Vicky. You guys are the sweetest. Rooting for you both!]

And right beneath it, Vicky had replied: [Thank you. Were going to take good care of each other.]

Because of the viral Live Photo, the long-dead Columbia alumni forums had resurrected the topic.

[Vicky and Wes were the golden couple of our graduating class. They only broke up because he moved to the West Coast for his Master's.]

[So this is the grand reunion? I'm seated.]

[I have a wild theory. Wes comes from a pretty normal, middle-class family, right? Stanford tuition and living in Palo Alto isn't cheap. Do we think the Vanguard heiress bankrolled his degree? Omg, the CEO staying in New York to fund her mans dreams. I'm obsessed.]

Every single year, Vicky took a solo trip to California. Specifically, to the Bay Area. Right where Wesley had been studying.

The phone shook in my grip. I couldn't let myself think about it anymore.

4.

Ten minutes after I walked through my front door, Vicky arrived.

Her clothes were perfectly neat. Not a hair was out of place. She looked completely put-together, betraying absolutely nothing.

My eyes were still bloodshot. I refused to look at her.

She walked up and grabbed my wrist.

"Nothing happened in there," she said. "I was just angry. I was trying to hurt you."

She was explaining. But she was entirely too late.

I nodded slowly, pulling my arm free. "I know."

I didn't speak another word to her for the rest of the night.

The next morning, feeling like a ghost, I took an Uber to the hospital. By the time my shift ended, the thought of returning to that townhouse made my stomach turn.

Maggie, one of the senior attending physicians, was scheduled for the night shift but was stressing about missing her daughter's parent-teacher conference. I offered to cover for her.

The ER was brutal that night. We had multiple traumas roll in.

By the time I scrubbed out of the OR and checked my locker, my phone screen was lit up with over a dozen missed calls.

Maggie had rushed back from the school.

"Simon, thank you so much," she breathed, handing me a paper carrier. "I heard we got hit with a multi-car pile-up and you had to jump into surgery. I brought you coffee."

I didn't pretend to be polite. I desperately needed the caffeine. "Thanks, Maggie. I'm going to head out."

"No, thank you," she smiled.

It was nearly midnight when I finally walked out of the sliding glass doors. I hadn't driven that morning, so I ordered another ride.

Sitting in the back of the car, I finally opened my phone. Every single missed call was from Vicky.

Two texts sat unread:

[Where are you?]

[I'm parked in the hospital garage. Waiting for you.]

I typed out a response, my thumbs moving mechanically.

[Don't bother. I'm already on my way home.]

She must have driven recklessly, because she walked into the house only minutes after I did.

Ever since the hotel incident, my entire psychological framework regarding my wife had shifted. Seeing her standing in our foyer suddenly made me feel incredibly suffocated.

We stared at each other. The air was thick with an unbearable, heavy awkwardness.

Her eyes were locked onto my face, tracking my every movement. I averted my gaze. Looking at her only conjured images of Wesley Mercer. It brought back the visual of her pulling him into that suite, the phantom sound of his breathless panting against my ear, the digital archive of their golden years together.

I used to come home and eagerly tell Vicky every mundane detail of my daythe patients I saw, the terrible cafeteria food I ate. I had spent years desperately trying to manufacture conversation, trying to bridge the gap between us.

Now, standing in our beautiful, sterile living room, I realized I had absolutely nothing left to say to her. The house was deafeningly quiet.

My mind flashed back to one of Wesleys old posts.

[She talks so much. I'm literally falling asleep and she's still rambling about what happened in her macroeconomics seminar today.]

My chest tightened painfully.

Vicky finally broke the silence. Her voice was cool, ringing out in the empty hall. "Weren't you on the day shift? Why are you back so late?"

I could feel the weight of her stare on my back as I walked over to the kitchen island to pour myself a glass of water.

"Yeah."

I didn't elaborate. I couldn't be bothered to explain the shift swap. I just didn't care enough to let her into my life anymore.

When I turned around, she had closed the distance and was standing right in front of me. Her lips parted, hesitating on the edge of a sentence.

I beat her to it. "I'm going to take a shower."

She swallowed whatever she was going to say.

When I stepped out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, she was standing right outside the door. I jolted, startled by her presence.

We made eye contact. I gave a tight, uncomfortable nod and walked past her.

Lying next to her in the dark that night, my mind spun out of control. Even just sharing a mattress with her felt profoundly wrong.

5.

Vicky was an early riser.

By the time I finally dragged myself out of bed, she had already showered and dressed for the office.

A full breakfast was laid out on the dining table. Vicky sat at the head of it, her expression unreadable and pristine.

I stared at the spread, my mind slipping away again. Another memory from Wesleys timeline.

[Told her I was craving a breakfast sandwich last night. Woke up to find her in the kitchen making me one from scratch. Her cooking is actually getting decent.]

A comment underneath: [You're a lucky guy.]

Wesley's reply: [Haha, hope you find your happiness too!]

"Simon."

Her voice pulled me back to reality.

"Eat breakfast."

I blinked, checking my watch. "You go ahead. I'm running late."

I turned to leave, but a hand clamped down hard on my forearm.

Vicky looked up at me through her dark, narrow eyelashes. Her gaze was intense, heavy with something I couldn't place.

"You have time," she commanded softly. "I'll drive you."

I surrendered. I sat down and forced a few bites down my throat just to placate her.

"My grandmother wants us at the estate for dinner tonight," she said, watching me chew. "I'll come pick you up at the hospital this evening."

I nodded vaguely. "Okay."

When I stood up to leave, she pushed her chair back, mirroring my movement. Her tone brooked no argument. "I'm driving you."

This time, I didn't yield. "No." I pulled my arm away. "There's no need."

I saw the faint, rare crease between her brows form, but I didn't stay to analyze it. I grabbed my coat and walked out.

6.

I grabbed lunch at the cafeteria with Maggie.

Mid-bite, she brought up the upcoming fellowship exchange to Charleston, South Carolina. She sighed, stirring her soup.

"Honestly, my daughters taking her SATs this year. I can't just up and leave for three months," Maggie lamented. "Most of the senior attendings have families. None of them want to go. And the newlyweds definitely aren't volunteering."

I paused. "Maggie. If you don't want to go, I'll take your spot."

She stopped stirring. "Simon, are you serious?"

I nodded, feeling the first real spark of clarity I'd had in weeks. "Yeah. I think it would be a great opportunity to learn from the program down there."

As soon as my lunch break ended, I marched into the department heads office and formally submitted my name.

Right as my shift ended, my phone rang.

I was at the nurses' station, and I answered it on speaker while organizing my charts. Vicky's crisp, cool voice drifted out.

Maggie and two other nurses happened to be walking by. They stopped, smirking at me with obvious amusement.

"Oooh, Dr. Wright," Maggie teased. "Is that the girlfriend?"

I forced a polite smile and shook my head. "No."

"I'm in the underground parking garage," Vicky said through the speaker.

"Alright, coming down," I replied, ending the call.

The hospital garage was dimly lit. Vicky was leaning against the sleek black exterior of her G-Wagon. She wore a tailored wool coat, her silhouette tall, imposing, and elegant.

As I walked toward her, Maggie suddenly emerged from the elevator bank, heading to her own car. She spotted us and her eyes lit up. She jogged over, eyebrows raised.

"Simon! Is this the mystery woman?" Maggie beamed at Vicky. "She's gorgeous."

My brain scrambled for an exit strategy. I lied without missing a beat.

"No, Maggie. She's my cousin."

I saw Vicky physically flinch. Her dark eyes snapped toward me, the temperature in them dropping to absolute zero.

Maggie, oblivious to the sudden tension, lost interest in the gossip. "Oh, got it! Have a good night, you two."

I got into the passenger seat. Vickys knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She turned her body toward me.

"Why did you say that?" she demanded.

"I just didn't want my coworkers to get the wrong idea," I answered, my voice perfectly steady.

She stared at me, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her features. "The wrong idea?"

She put the car in drive and pulled out of the garage.

The radio was on, tuned to a popular entertainment channel. The overly enthusiastic voice of a celebrity gossip host filled the cabin.

"...Vanguard CEO Vicky Hastings and influencer Wesley Mercer broke the internet again after being spotted together at a luxury Catskills resort. Hastings was seen in a tiny bikini, draped in Mercers tailored blazer. The sexual tension? Absolutely off the charts, folks."

Vicky lunged for the console, violently shutting the radio off. She turned to me, words tumbling out in a rush.

"You were there. You know there were other corporate partners present."

I looked out the window at the passing traffic. "I know."

She tried again, her voice tightening. "Nothing happened between us."

I offered her a small, placating smile, assuming she was just doing damage control so I wouldn't rat her out to her family.

"Don't worry, Vicky. Your secret is safe with me. I won't say a word to your grandmother."

Vicky slammed her foot on the brake.

The tires screeched. I pitched forward against the seatbelt. When I looked over, all the blood had drained from her face. She was staring at me, her eyes chaotic, a storm of emotion violently warring beneath the surface.