He Arranged the Accident That Ruined My Face. When I Returned With a New Look, He Didn’t Even Recognize His Wife

I looked at them both—my husband, who couldn’t meet my gaze, and his mother, who couldn’t stop staring at my bandages. The golden son and his matriarch, already plotting my seamless recovery to save face. «I think I need to lie down,» I said, shoving my chair back.

— Of course, dear, — Alyssa called after me. — We’ll figure everything out.

In the guest room, their voices filtered through the wall, muffled but decipherable. «Poor thing,» Alyssa was saying. «But Aidan, you are still young. There will be other opportunities for children once the dust settles.»

— Mom, please, — Aidan sounded exhausted. — I’m just saying you need to consider your future. Both of your futures.

I touched the bandages, feeling the rough gauze where smooth skin used to be. I remembered our wedding day, how Aidan used to whisper that I looked like an angel. Now, he couldn’t even look at me.

My phone buzzed, dragging me from the pit of my thoughts. It was a text from an unfamiliar number. «Mrs. Griffin, my name is Maxime Cressy. I am the father of the young man who caused your accident. Please, I need to speak with you.»

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the glass. Through the drywall, I could still hear Aidan and Alyssa plotting a life that minimized my inconvenience. A switch flipped inside me—not hope, but something harder, closer to a mission. I typed back a single word.

— When?

For weeks after returning home, I discovered Aidan’s whiskey bottles stashed behind the cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. They were always half-empty. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t heard him stumbling around at 4 a.m., whispering into his phone.

The bandages had been removed the day before, and while I avoided mirrors, I couldn’t avoid Aidan’s late-night confessionals. «You should have seen her face today,» he slurred to someone, chuckling darkly. «Like that movie villain… you know, Two-Face from Batman.»

There was a silence, followed by more drunken laughter. «I know, I know, I shouldn’t joke. But man, you try waking up to that.» I stood in the dark kitchen, gripping his hidden bottle, and felt the final tether snap.

The next morning, Aidan pantomimed normalcy. He kissed the unscarred side of my cheek before leaving. «Big presentation today,» he said, fixing his tie. «Don’t wait up.»

I waited until his taillights disappeared before ascending the stairs to our master bedroom. I hadn’t been up there since the accident, respecting his unspoken quarantine.

Everything was preserved exactly as I’d left it, except for one detail. My old art supplies were gone from the closet. I located them in the garage, buried beneath boxes of Christmas ornaments.

The wooden case still bore my name, carved into the lid—a wedding gift from my grandmother. Inside, the brushes lay dormant alongside expensive oil paints Aidan had bought me years ago when I mentioned a desire to return to art. «You should focus on practical hobbies,» Alyssa had sniffed back then.

«Aidan needs a wife, not a bohemian.» I set up the easel in the guest room, angling it toward the window. Morning light flooded the canvas as I mixed pigments, letting muscle memory guide my hand.

Red for fury, black for grief, yellow for the hope that had died. The brush moved with a mind of its own, birthing something raw and visceral. Hours evaporated.

When the front door eventually opened, I heard Aidan’s footsteps hesitate outside my sanctuary. «Mother is here for dinner,» he called out. I didn’t answer, slashing another streak of crimson across the canvas.

The door creaked open. «Audrey, what are you…» Aidan froze mid-sentence. «What is that supposed to be?» I stepped back from the easel.

It was a woman’s face, bisected. One side was flawless, porcelain perfection. The other was a fractured distortion, with a wine glass pressed to smiling, ruinous lips.

— It’s you, — Alyssa said from behind him, her voice distinct and sharp. — Or rather, what you’ve allowed yourself to become. — I watched the color drain from Aidan’s face.

— I call it ‘Two-Face’, — I said softly. — Funny, right? — Aidan’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. His eyes, however, screamed guilt.

— Don’t you get the joke? — I asked, my voice barely a whisper, though I knew he did. — I heard you last night, Aidan. And the night before that. And the night before that.

Alyssa quickly inserted herself between us. — Audrey, Aidan has been under immense pressure. If you could just try to understand…

— Understand what? — I snapped, pivoting to face them. I saw them both recoil. — That my husband cracks jokes about my disfigurement? That he hides liquor bottles like Easter eggs? That he can’t stomach sleeping in the same room as me?

— That’s not fair, — Aidan protested weakly. — I’m trying to…

— To what? — I interrupted. — Keep up appearances? — I gestured to the painting. — Is this the aesthetic you were hoping for?

Alyssa stiffened, her demeanor turning glacial. — Perhaps this outburst is an indication that you require professional intervention.

I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound that made them step back. — Professional help? Like that plastic surgeon you keep shoving at me? The one who can fix Aidan’s marketing problem?

— Audrey, please, — Aidan pleaded, reaching out.

I stepped out of range. — Don’t worry, — I said, retrieving my brush. — I’m already working on fixing everything.

They retreated from the room, whispering furiously. I turned back to my work, adding the final detail.

A faint text notification chimed in the background. «Tomorrow at three. I’ll explain everything.» Maxime Cressy.

I stepped back to critique the work. Both sides of the painted face were smiling, but the motives were vastly different. Tomorrow, I would meet the father of the man who destroyed my existence. Tomorrow, the tectonic plates of my life would shift.

The café Maxime Cressy selected was exactly what I anticipated: quiet, exorbitantly expensive, and far removed from anywhere Aidan or Alyssa would frequent. I wore a scarf draped to obscure my face; it drew less curiosity than the medical mask I had become accustomed to.

Maxime stood as I navigated the tables. I recognized the haunting guilt in his eyes instantly; I’d seen a reflection of it in my own mirror often enough. It was the look of a man consumed by things he couldn’t undo.

— Mrs. Griffin, — he said softly. — Thank you for meeting me.

— Audrey, — I corrected, taking my seat. — Your son… is he in rehab?

Maxime’s knuckles whitened around his coffee cup. — He is. The accident occurred shortly after he checked out of his third facility. The social circle we move in… it’s small. I knew of your husband. I should have predicted my son might cross paths with someone like him.

A waitress approached, faltering slightly when she noticed the scarf, before plastering on a professional smile. I ordered black coffee and waited for her retreat.

— Why did you want to meet? — I asked.

Maxime produced a folder from his satchel and slid it across the mahogany table. — These are portfolios from the nation’s top reconstructive surgeons. I’ve already consulted with Dr. Isaac in Jacksonville. He is prepared to take your case.

I stared at the glossy pages, a parade of before-and-after miracles. «Insurance won’t touch this,» I said flatly.

— I’m not discussing insurance, — Maxime said, his voice cracking with emotion. — I am offering to pay for everything. It is the absolute least I can do after what my son…

— Why? — The question was sharper than intended.

— Because I failed him, — Maxime answered simply. — And in failing him, I failed you. Money cannot undo the past, but it can fix this. — He gestured vaguely toward my face.

I opened the brochure, scanning Dr. Isaac’s impressive credentials. The estimated costs made my stomach turn; it was more than Aidan earned in a year.

— Your husband is unaware of this meeting, — Maxime stated. It wasn’t a question. «No.»

— Good. — He leaned in, his expression darkening. — Because there is something else you need to know.

I gripped the ceramic mug as he continued. — The night of the crash, my son wasn’t alone in the vehicle. — My chest constricted, but I remained silent.

— There was a woman with him, — Maxime said heavily. — She is someone’s wife. They had been meeting at the Golden Leaf Hotel every Saturday for months.

The Golden Leaf. The specific location where Aidan held his alleged weekly client dinners.

— The woman survived, — Maxime continued. — Unscathed. She fled the scene before authorities arrived. My son was too intoxicated to recall her name, but he remembered her workplace.

He slid a scrap of paper across the table. I glanced at it, bile rising in my throat. «Griffin Marketing Associates.»

— You’re lying, — I whispered.

— I wish I were, — Maxime said grimly. — For both our sakes. — He retrieved his phone, displaying a grainy security still.