When people talk about marriage vows “for better or worse, in sickness and in health,” they often speak as if the words themselves can hold a relationship together.
But when I lay in that hospital bed, pretending to be in a coma, I realized those vows mean little when love turns into convenience.
My name is Isabelle, and for years, I believed I had everything.
A thriving design business, a sprawling estate by the lake, and a husband I adored, Caleb.
We’d been married for twelve years, built from nothing together.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
Caleb had been charming, once an ambitious man who supported my dreams and celebrated every milestone with me.
But over the past few years, his enthusiasm dulled.
The compliments stopped, replaced with subtle criticisms.
He began coming home later and later, claiming “meetings” that left him smelling of perfume that wasn’t mine.
At first, I told myself I was being paranoid.
I was under stress, I thought.
Business expansion, family pressure, it was all getting to me.
But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
Then one morning, I fainted in the kitchen.
Caleb found me on the floor, and his reaction was… underwhelming.
He didn’t shout my name in panic or cradle me with trembling hands.
He just sighed, called an ambulance, and followed behind my car at a calm pace.
When I woke up at the hospital, I overheard him talking to the doctor in the hallway.
“How long will she be out?” he asked in a flat tone.
“We’re still running tests,” the doctor said. “She’s stable but weak.”
“Hmm. Keep me updated,” Caleb muttered, and left to take a phone call.
Something in his voice told me it wasn’t concern.
It was irritation, like my sudden collapse was an inconvenience in his schedule.
That night, the doctor came in privately.
Dr. Harper was an old family friend, someone who had known my late father.
He leaned close and whispered, “Isabelle, your vitals are normal. There’s no medical reason for you to stay unconscious. But I can tell you’re… worried about something.”
I hesitated, then told him everything: the late nights, the phone calls, the emotional distance.
He listened, nodded, and said quietly, “If you want to know who truly stands beside you, sometimes it’s better to watch than ask.”
That was how the idea was born.
Dr. Harper agreed to help me.
“We’ll tell him you’re in a coma,” he said. “But you’ll be conscious. You’ll hear and see everything.”
So the next morning, when Caleb walked in, I didn’t move.
I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed, my body limp.
The machines beeped softly beside me.
He approached, stood silently for a moment, and then… took out his phone.
“Yeah, she’s still out,” he said, sighing into the receiver. “No, I don’t know how long. Maybe this is a sign. We can’t keep sneaking around forever.”
My heart clenched.
Sneaking around?
I wanted to rip the tubes out and scream at him.
But I didn’t. I stayed still, every muscle trembling from the effort.
That afternoon, he returned with her.
A woman in her late twenties, glossy brown hair cascading over a red dress, heels clicking against the hospital floor.
She looked out of place among the machines and sterile walls, like she belonged in a boutique rather than by a hospital bed.
“Are you sure we should be here?” she whispered.
“She won’t know,” Caleb said smoothly. “She’s out cold.”
They stood over me, and he actually laughed. “You know, she looks peaceful. Almost like she finally shut up.”
The woman, his mistress, giggled softly. “You’re terrible.”
He took her hand. “You don’t know half of it. Once all this is settled, I’ll have the life I actually want. No more pretending.”
My stomach turned.
All the years I’d supported him, paying off his debts, introducing him to investors, standing by him when people doubted him… and now, this.
Over the next few days, Caleb visited less frequently.
Sometimes he brought flowers that he left unopened on the counter.
Other times, he came just to check in with the doctors, asking if “anything had changed.”
But his mistress came too — always in the same perfume, always glancing nervously at me.
Once, she leaned close to whisper, “You poor thing. Maybe it’s better this way.”
Better how? I wondered bitterly.
After a week of this charade, Dr. Harper came to see me late one evening.
“Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” he asked softly. “You’ve seen enough, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes. “But I’m not done yet.”
Because now, I didn’t just want confirmation — I wanted to see how far Caleb would go.
So I asked Dr. Harper to tell him that my condition had worsened, that I might never wake up.
The next morning, Caleb rushed in — his first sign of urgency since this began.
But it wasn’t worry in his eyes. It was calculation.
He asked to speak with the doctor privately.
I heard every word from behind the curtain.
“If she doesn’t wake up,” he said carefully, “what happens to her estate?”
Dr. Harper played along. “Her assets go into a trust until further notice. But her business… she didn’t name a secondary owner, correct?”
Caleb hesitated. “No, but I’m her husband. That should give me control, right?”
I’ll never forget the tone of his voice — eager, greedy, almost trembling with excitement.
Two days later, he returned with a lawyer.
My lawyer.
He’d somehow convinced her to come and “discuss the transfer of certain responsibilities” should I remain incapacitated.
That was the moment I decided it was time to wake up.
The next morning, Dr. Harper entered with a small smile. “Ready?” he whispered.
I nodded.
He called the nurse, who announced, “Doctor, her vitals are improving!”
Caleb came running in, looking pale and anxious.
I blinked a few times, groaned, and slowly opened my eyes.
“Isabelle?” he gasped, plastering on the most dramatic expression I’d ever seen. “Oh, thank God!”
I blinked at him, feigning confusion. “What… happened?”
“You… you fainted. It was so sudden. I’ve been here every day,” he lied effortlessly.
Dr. Harper hid his smirk. “Yes, your husband has been very… attentive.”
Caleb grasped my hand, squeezing it just enough to sell the act. “I was so worried. I thought I’d lost you.”
I let him talk, spinning his little story, until he ran out of breath.
Then I said softly, “Who’s she?”
His smile faltered. “She?”
“The woman with the brown hair and the red dress. The one you brought here three days ago.”
His color drained. “You… must be confused. Medication—”
“I wasn’t asleep,” I said. “I heard everything.”
The silence that followed was the most satisfying sound I’d ever heard.
He stammered, tried excuses, but I sat up and cut him off.
“You tried to take over my company. You brought your mistress to my bedside. You called me a burden. Get out.”
I asked Dr. Harper to call security.
Caleb’s mask finally shattered. He stormed out, furious.
His mistress froze outside when she saw me awake. I told her coldly, “You should know — he lies to everyone.”
After I was discharged, I called my lawyer, secured my assets, and filed for divorce.
Caleb tried begging, crying, apologizing — but the spell was broken.
A few months later at a gala, Dr. Harper asked, “So, how’s life after the great coma experiment?”
I smiled. “Liberating.”
“Did you find someone who stays when no one’s watching?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I will.”
Sometimes, the only way to truly wake up… is to pretend you were never asleep.
