The Fake Car Accident

Moonlight from the Mid-Autumn Festival slipped through the curtain cracks, casting a pale streak across the floor. The phone suddenly rang sharply, and the name "Luna Zamora" flashed on the screen. I took a deep breath and answered. Before I could even say Happy Mid-Autumn Festival, her tearful voice stunned me. "Yvette Pearson, get to the Central City Hospital right now! Simon Silva's had a car accident and he's in the emergency room!" Blood rushed to my head in an instant and froze like ice the next moment. My fingers clenched the phone so hard they turned white; my voice trembled uncontrollably: "Which emergency room? Is it serious?" "Just come quickly; we can talk when you get here!" Luna Zamora hung up immediately after speaking. In the background, there seemed to be muffled sounds of commotion. I didn't even bother to change my shoes and rushed out of the house in my slippers. The night wind, carrying autumn's chill, brushed against my face. When I hailed a taxi, my hands trembled so badly that I couldn't speak the address clearly. My mind went completely blank, with only the image of Simon Silva, drenched in blood and lying on the operating table, spinning wildly in my head. Reaching the hospital, I stumbled toward the service desk and asked about Simon Silva. The nurse searched for a long time, then shook her head, saying no patient by that name was under emergency treatment. A sense of dread clawed its way up my spine. I called Luna Zamora again; this time, she took a long time to answer. "Have you arrived?" Her voice didn't sound like someone who had just been crying at all. "I'm at the service desk. There's absolutely no record of Simon Silva here. What game are you playing?" My voice shook with anger and fear. Suddenly, deafening music blasted through the phone, followed by Luna's reckless laughter. "Hahaha, Yvette Pearson, you actually believed it?" Her voice, mixed with the raucous noise of the bar, stabbed into my ears like needles. "Look at the video." The screen suddenly switched to a video call. Luna Zamora was spinning around with her phone inside a dimly lit bar, shadows flickering all around. In the booth behind her, Simon Silva lifted his glass, laughing and chatting with others, his profile under the neon lights looking strangely unfamiliar. "See? Simon Silva is doing just fine." Luna pushed the camera close to Simon's face. "Your husband's drinking with me, yet you ran faster than anyone else." Simon's smile faded slightly when he saw me on the screen, but there wasn't a trace of apology. I gripped my phone tightly, my knuckles white, my nails nearly digging into my skin. "Yvette Pearson, don't be so petty," Luna Zamora sneered. "It's just a joke, no need to take it seriously." "A joke?" I repeated the words, my throat burning as if sandpaper had scraped it. "Joking about life and death?" Simon Silva took the phone, his tone habitually indulgent. "Luna's just messing around. Don't take it to heart. It's not a big deal—why so serious?" "Not a big deal?" I looked at his self-righteous face, feeling as if an icy hand was gripping my heart, slowly tightening. "Simon Silva, what if I were the one lying in the hospital today?" He frowned, as if thinking I was just making a scene. "Yvette Pearson, can't you be a little more understanding? Luna is my friend—I've known her temper since we were kids, you know that." "Friend?" I suddenly laughed, tears nearly spilling from my eyes. "Yeah, a good friend. Good enough to send the lingerie she wore to our home, then tell her friend that his wife was cheating on him." That incident was like a thorn stuck deep in my heart for almost a year. At that time, Simon Silva blamed me without listening, refusing to believe any explanation I gave. In the end, he simply dismissed it and said: "Luna is young and inexperienced; you should cut her some slack." I thought that in time, he would realize who truly cared about him. Now it seems I was just too naive. "Isn't that matter long behind us?" Simon Silva's tone grew impatient, "Yvette Pearson, can you stop bringing up old issues?" "I can't move past it." I spoke slowly and clearly, my voice eerily calm, "Simon Silva, let's get a divorce." There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds, then Simon Silva's voice, filled with disbelief, broke through: "Yvette Pearson, what did you say? Just over this?" "It's not just over this." I stared at the hospital corridor's cold white lights, feeling the last flicker of warmth inside me fade away completely. "It's because of everything." I hung up and turned, walking out of the hospital. The night breeze dried the tears at the corners of my eyes and stirred the numbness that had long dulled my heart. Back home, I pulled out the divorce agreement I'd prepared long ago and signed my name at the bottom. The next morning, Simon Silva came home reeking of alcohol. Seeing the divorce agreement on the table, he was initially stunned, then erupted in fury. "Yvette Pearson, have you had enough of this nonsense?" He grabbed the agreement and tore it to shreds, the pieces falling like snow to the floor. "I'm telling you, I won't agree to a divorce!" I looked at his furious face, feeling strangely calm inside. "I'll print another copy." I said.