The Fake Husband

The screech of tires against the pavement shattered the dusk as I looked down, texting Leo Luke. The phone screen glowed, the input box still holding the words "waiting for you to come back and eat the pork rib stew I made," before the violent impact sent it flying the next second. My body slammed into the windshield like a kite with its string cut; a sharp pain pierced my forehead, and warm liquid streamed down my cheek. I reached out to grab the phone that had fallen onto the passenger seat; my fingertips just touched its cold surface when my consciousness faded into darkness. When I opened my eyes again, the sharp scent of disinfectant filled my nostrils; an IV line was inserted in my arm, and every movement sent waves of aching through my entire body. Outside, the sky was dull and gray; a nurse pushed a treatment cart by, her footsteps ringing clearly in the empty corridor. "Ms. Lincoln, you're awake?" The doctor in the white coat entered, holding the medical records, his expression grave. "Both your kidneys are severely damaged. The left one is completely necrotic and must be removed. Moreover, both your legs have suffered irreversible nerve damage. From now on, you may... never be able to stand again." The doctor's words pierced my eardrums like an ice pick. I suddenly glanced down at my legs beneath the blanket—they lay still, completely numb. Tears struck the white sheets, spreading into a small, damp stain. I opened my mouth but couldn't utter a sound. As the caregiver wiped my face, I seized the moment to ask about my phone. She paused, saying that only a shattered phone case was found at the car accident scene—the motherboard inside was badly burnt beyond recognition. Leo Luke's phone was no longer reachable. I asked the caregiver to turn on the phone for me; in the pinned chat, the last message was still mine—"Pork rib soup"—he hadn't had time to reply. Three days later, a man in a dark blue shirt entered the ward, carrying a thermal flask, his hair perfectly combed. With red eyes, he gripped my hand, his palm intentionally warm: "Wendy, I'm your husband, Felix Carter. Don't be afraid, I will save you." I gazed at his face—the unfamiliar features, the strange voice—but when he said the word "husband," his tone was so natural, as if rehearsed a thousand times.