Carving My Heart Without You

On the night of our seventh anniversary, Chelsea ladled a bowl of savory chicken broth for me, then slid a contract across the polished marble kitchen island.

I know youve always wanted your own gallery, she said, her voice smooth, almost casual. It opens next month.

I stared at her, my heart leaping with a sudden, breathless hope. She offered me a faint, amused smile.

Actually, Jesse, theres something I havent been entirely honest about. That million-dollar debt from years ago? It was never real. Im the sole heiress to the Whitmore estate. The struggle, the tight budgetsit was a test my family insisted on. And you passed beautifully.

But in the very next breath, she dropped a bomb so casually I almost missed it.

But theres a catch. The role of the Whitmore son-in-law has to go to Oliver.

The night you were locked away in your studio finishing those commission drafts... we had a few too many drinks. Things got out of hand. Im pregnant with his child.

I know you two are like brothers. When the baby is born, we want you to be the godfather.

Everything else stays the same. He gets the Whitmore name on paper, but my heart belongs to you, Jesse. It always will.

A sudden, violent chill swept through me. My fingers slipped into the pocket of my heavy wool coat, which I hadn't even had the chance to take off. Inside was a folded piece of paperthe neurologist's diagnosis. The permanent, irreversible nerve damage in my right hand.

I know this is a lot to take in, Chelsea continued, her tone as even as if she were discussing tomorrows weather forecast. But we cant delay this.

Olivers heart condition is fragile. The news of the pregnancy put so much stress on him; hes been having severe palpitations and blacking out. He cant be left alone right now. Youve always been the sensible one, Jesse. Go focus on setting up the gallery for a few weeks. Once his health stabilizes, Ill make it up to you.

I looked down at the steaming broth. Suddenly, the last seven years of my life felt like a cruel, elaborate punchline.

Ever since I helped Chelsea launch her startup, sleepless nights had become my default state. In those early days, we survived on low-budget, fast-turnaround freelance gigs that came with endless demands.

I couldn't count how many nights I had worked until dawn, my fingers cramping so badly I couldn't grip the stylus, crying silently on the cold hardwood floor of my cramped studio surrounded by rejected drafts.

After drying my face, Id dial the clients to apologize and beg for another chance.

Even when the repetitive strain turned into chronic tendinitis, I never uttered a single word of complaint.

Back then, Chelsea would wrap my throbbing wrist in a warm compress, looking at me with soft, tear-filled eyes, whispering that things would get better.

I looked at her now, my voice sounding like gravel. If that million-dollar debt was a lie... what did you feel during those seven years? Watching me sketch for fourteen hours a day? Watching me refuse to buy a single new winter coat? Watching me drink myself to a bleeding ulcer just to secure a small investment for your company? What did you feel, Chelsea?

Chelsea went quiet for a moment, then reached across the table to cover my hand with hers.

Sweetheart, I know you feel cheated. But your background... my family would never have accepted it without a fight. Ive been fighting for us.

What happened with Oliver was a mistake. Hes sick, he was vulnerable, and he came on to me. Wed both been drinking. But I dont love him, Jesse. You are the only man I love.

As for Oliver... once the baby is born, Ill arrange a trust fund and send him abroad to get the best cardiac care. Well raise the baby together. We'll tell everyone it's ours, and you will always be my real husband.

She spoke with such absolute earnestness that I realized she actually believed her own lies. But the ache in my right hand was intensifying now, a sharp, throbbing line of pain that seemed to find its way directly to my chest.

Do your parents know? I asked, shifting the subject.

I didn't miss the sudden flicker of guilt in her eyes.

They... they insisted that the first grandchild of the Whitmore line cannot be born out of wedlock. They want me and Oliver to go back to the estate together. To make things official.

I wanted to laugh. It was almost funny. For seven years, I wasn't even allowed to know where her family home was. I wasn't worthy of their threshold. Now, thanks to Oliver, I finally had an invitation.

Chelsea noticed my expression hardening, and her voice softened even further, taking on a coaxing, maternal tone. Sweetheart, I know it hurts. But its already done. Think about itOliver is your best friend. His child is practically your child. What difference does it make?

She opened her mouth to say more, but her phone buzzed loudly on the counter.

Your chest is hurting again? Oliver, don't take any pills yet. Im on my way.

She grabbed her car keys from the hook, murmuring frantic reassurances into the receiver. Slipping into her flats by the door, she looked back at me. I need to check on him, Jesse. Well talk when I get back. Drink the broth, okay? Don't let yourself get hungry.

My fingers tightened around the diagnosis sheet in my pocket. I took a slow, trembling breath. Chelsea. What if I told you my hand is ruined? That I can never paint again?

She paused, her hand hovering over the phones microphone. Jesse, youre not the type to make jokes like that. Stop acting out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

I pulled the neurologist's report out of my pocket, unfolding the crisp paper and flattening it on the dining table. It lay right beside the gallery transfer deed.

I sat there in the silence of the empty house, watching the steam slowly rise from the bowl of broth until it grew cold and still. Outside, the pale, gray dawn of a Boston morning began to bleed through the window, illuminating the dust motes in the air.

I picked up the bowl, took a single sip, and forced myself to swallow.

Chelsea had always been an excellent cook. During those brutal, all-night drawing sessions, she would always bring me a hot bowl of soup. But this time, the taste made my stomach turn. A sudden wave of intense nausea hit me. I pushed the bowl away, rushed to the bathroom, and emptied my stomach until there was nothing left.

I didn't see Chelsea for the rest of the night.

The next morning, her personal assistant knocked on the door, handing me a sleek black American Express card and a brass key.

Mr. Dalton, the assistant said politely, Ms. Whitmore asked me to deliver this. It's a black card with no spending limit. Also, the penthouse on the East Side has been fully prepared. She wants you to rest there for the time being.

I stared at the plastic card, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat.

Back in college, I had worked myself to the bone, taking on every miserable freelance gig just to fund Chelseas startup. I had tolerated every demanding, toxic client imaginable, sacrificing my physical and mental health just to keep her business afloat. And yet, with a single reveal of her true identity, she could produce a black card and a multi-million-dollar penthouse without blinking.

In a sick way, I supposed I had Oliver to thank. Without his betrayal, I might never have witnessed the sheer scale of the Whitmore fortune.

But the humor died quickly. I tossed the card and the key onto the table, pulled out my phone, and called Oliver.

Send me the address, I said.

Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds before he softly, hesitantly gave me the address to his luxury high-rise in Back Bay.

A cold smirk touched my lips. I hung up and called an Uber.

Chelsea was the one who opened the door. She was wearing a cozy knit lounge set, holding a warm mug of honey water. She froze when she saw me.

Jesse? What are you doing here?

I came to see Oliver.

The penthouse was massive, bathed in natural light. The living room was centered around a plush, off-white sectionalOlivers favorite styleand a vase of fresh lilies sat on the glass coffee table.

Oliver was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a heavy cashmere throw. His face was pale, his lips nearly bloodless. When his eyes met mine, he instinctively shrank back, looking toward Chelsea for protection.

Jesse, he whispered.

I walked right past Chelsea and sat on the armchair opposite him. Chelsea followed, setting the warm mug in front of Oliver before sitting down closely beside him. She casually draped her arm along the back of the sofa behind his shouldersa deeply practiced, protective gesture.

I looked at Oliver. Where does it hurt?

He stared down at his interlaced fingers, his voice barely audible. My heart was racing last night. Chelsea insisted I stay here and rest. He looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He looked exactly like he used to back in college when he got caught copying my art history assignments.

I only came here for one thing, Oliver. I want the truth. Do you love her?

Chelsea tried to interject. Jesse, lets discuss this back at our place.

Im asking him, I said, not breaking eye contact with Oliver. Could you stay out of it?

Chelseas face tightened at my sharp tone. She opened her mouth to argue, but Oliver gently tugged at her sleeve. Chelsea, please. Let me talk to Jesse alone.

Chelsea hesitated, looking between the two of us, before finally sighing and stepping out onto the balcony.

Olivers eyes brimmed with red. Jesse, I know Ive ruined everything. I know what I did to you is unforgivable. But the day the doctor told me my heart was failing... Chelsea was the only one there. She pulled strings to get me in to see the best specialist. She told me, 'Jesse has a deadline today and couldn't make it, so Im here instead.' She paid my deposit. She looked at me with so much pity. Jesse, in that moment, I realized that even if I only have one day left on this earth, I want to spend it with her.

I looked at him, feeling a dull, aching laceration in my chest. This was a brother I had shared ten years of my life with. I knew him well enough to recognize that his vulnerability, his desperation, was entirely real.

But what about me?

To raise the money for his heart transplant, I had pulled endless double shifts taking on extra freelance illustrations. For Chelsea, I had turned down a prestigious, fully-funded residency in Paris. Every spare ounce of my energy, my time, and my health had been poured into the two of them. Even the day of Oliver's surgery, I had slipped down a flight of concrete stairs in a torrential downpour while running to grab a lucky charm he'd asked for, nearly shattering my right wrist.

And yet, my best friend had climbed into bed with my fiance.

Loving someone isn't a crime, Oliver, I said, my voice barely above a whisper. But using your illness to trap my fiance, knowing exactly what she meant to me, is. Playing the victim while you two secretly carried on behind my back is.

His lips trembled. Jesse, you love her too, but you don't understand the terror of knowing your own heart could stop at any second. I was drowning. I just wanted a lifeline. I couldn't sleep, thinking about dying alone. I just wanted someone to lean on...

So because you needed a lifeline, Im supposed to just hand over my fiance? My throat was parched, the words tasting like ash.

He looked up, his tears still wet on his cheeks, but his gaze had shifted. The guilt was still there, but beneath it lay a simmering resentment, a bitter sense of entitlement.

Jesse, do you have any idea what Chelsea told me about you? She said you were too intense. She said you were so consumed by your work and your drive that she felt like she was suffocating around you. She said she only felt truly needed when she was with me.

He wiped his eyes, his breathing growing ragged as he leaned forward and grabbed my shoulder. Do you know what it felt like for me? To be her dirty little secret? A shadow hidden in the dark, thrown a scrap of pity whenever she felt like it, while you got to be her fianc in the light?

I sat there, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain firing down my right arm, and simply stared at him. So that was it. In his mind, he was the victim. He truly believed we had wronged him.

There was nothing left to say. Looking at him, I realized with a chilling certainty that the boy I had grown up with was gone.

I stood up to leave, but he lunged forward, grabbing my sleeve and sobbing hysterically.

Jesse! You neglected her for years for your art! You never gave her the warmth she neededwhy couldn't you let me do it? The Whitmores have more money than they know what to do with, and shes carrying my child. I can finally get the medical care I need without worrying about dying in debt! I just want to live! Youve always been better than me at everything, Jesse. You've always let me win. Can't you just let me have this one thing?

I reached down and pried his fingers off my arm, one by one. You're out of your mind, Oliver.

Panic flared in his eyes. He scrambled to his feet to block my path, but his balance gave way. He stumbled, crashing heavily into the glass coffee table.

The glass shattered with a deafening crack.

He collapsed among the shards, clutching his chest, gasping in agony.

The balcony door flew open. Chelsea charged into the room like a tempest, violently shoving me aside as I stood there in shock. She knelt beside Oliver, cradling him with a frantic, desperate tenderness, then looked up at me, her eyes burning with pure disgust. Jesse, how could you? Youre a monster!

Oliver's eyes fluttered, looking at me with a weak, pleading gaze. Jesse... I'm sorry... I shouldn't have...

Oliver, stop, Chelsea snapped, her voice breaking with worry as she helped him up. You don't owe him an apology. He's the one who should be begging for forgiveness.

She escorted him toward the exit, pausing at the threshold to look back at me. Her expression was cold, hard, and utterly devoid of the warmth we had shared for seven years.

Jesse Dalton, pack your things and go back to that dead-end town you came from. If I ever catch you near Oliver again, I will personally ensure you never get another art commission in this industry. Ill ruin you.

My father stood in the center of the room, looking frantically between me and the hallway. Finally, he gave me a look of deep disappointment.

Stop being selfish, Jesse, he whispered, before turning on his heel to chase after them.

Their footsteps faded down the corridor, along with Oliver's ragged, shallow breathing, leaving nothing but the hum of the hospital monitors.

A dry laugh escaped my throat. I reached over, ripped the IV out of my left arm, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

My right hand throbbed with a sickening, white-hot intensity, but I pressed my shoulder against the wall and slowly dragged myself down to the reception desk.

I paid my bill using my own meager savings, leaving me with almost nothing. Then, I placed the black Amex card on the counter.

Return this to Chelsea Whitmore, I told the receptionist.

I walked out of the hospital doors and bought a one-way ticket on the first Greyhound bus out of Boston. I didn't pack. I didn't look back.