Chapter 4

It was late at night, and the hospital corridor was eerily quiet.

Emily had finally worn herself out and fallen asleep on her IV drip. Ethan sat in the bedside chair, but his brow remained furrowed.

Since earlier, his heart had been inexplicably tightening in waves. The sudden panic made him restless. He instinctively pressed his hand against his chest, trying to suppress that anxious feeling, but it was useless.

He pulled out his phone, its screen illuminating his stern but slightly tired face.

The chat window was open to our conversation. The last message was one he'd sent three hours ago:

[Had enough of your tantrum? Call me back the second you see this.]

No response.

In the past, whenever he sent a message, even at 3 AM, I would reply within ten seconds, afraid to keep him waiting even a moment.

But now, that chat window remained silent.

That night, Ethan barely slept. He kept checking his phone. Each time the screen lit up, a flicker of hope would flash in his eyes, only to quickly turn dark when he saw the empty notification bar.

At dawn, Emily was still asleep. Ethan got up, splashed cold water on his face, grabbed his coat, and left.

He went to an old-fashioned pie shop three miles from the hospital.

It was Emily's favorite pie place, with limited daily quantities. Go too late, and they'd be sold out.

In the cold morning wind, he patiently waited in line for a full forty minutes.

One hand in his coat pocket, the other holding his phone, he tirelessly dialed my number.

"Hi, this is Sophia. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep."

The same recorded message played again and again. 

I floated beside him, watching him go from initial impatience to growing agitation, until even his knuckles gripping the phone turned white.

"Sophia, well done," he muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes bloodshot. "So you've learned to disappear, have you? You'd better hope I don't catch you."

I looked at the freshly baked, steaming hot pie in his hand and found it utterly ironic.

Three years of marriage, and he'd never once bought me breakfast.

Even when I had a high fever and wanted a sip of juice, he would only coldly say "order delivery," then turn around to comfort a "frightened" Emily.

When he returned to the hospital room, it was already 10 AM.

Emily was awake. Seeing Ethan come in with her favorite breakfast, her face lit up with a surprised yet weak smile: "Ethan, that place is so far away... I'm not even that hungry, you really don't have to go through all that trouble to spoil me."

"It was on the way," Ethan replied flatly, opening the container and carefully handing her the pie.

Though his body sat there, his mind seemed elsewhere.

When Emily talked to him, he was always half a beat slow to respond. His eyes kept drifting to the phone on the bedside table. He looked so distracted that even Emily noticed.

"Ethan, are you waiting for someone's call?" Emily took a bite of pie and asked casually. "Is Sophia still not in touch? She really doesn't know how to prioritize. She knows you're busy with work, yet she throws a fit at such a critical time..."

"Don't worry about her." Ethan cut her off coldly, picking up a water glass to drink, trying to hide his agitation. "When she calms down, she'll come back on her own."

Just as he finished speaking, a sudden ringtone exploded in the quiet hospital room.

Ethan's body went rigid.

He grabbed the phone almost instantly. Two words flashed on the screen—[Sophia].

In that moment, I clearly saw his tense shoulders relax, followed immediately by an explosion of anger that had been suppressed all night.

Without hesitation, he answered and demanded:

"Sophia, you finally decided to call back?"

"Out all night, not answering your phone—do you know how many times I called you? What the hell are you playing at!"

"Since you're not dead, get to the hospital right now and apologize to Emily..."

His angry tirade stopped abruptly.

Because what came through the phone wasn't my submissive apology or my choked-up explanation.

It was a calm, low male voice with a businesslike tone.

"Mr. Jones, it's me, Franklin."

Ethan froze. His rage felt like it had been doused with ice water, stuck in his throat: "Franklin? What are you doing with Sophia's phone?"

He paused, as if thinking of something, and let out a scoff: "What, she ran to the police station to make a scene just to avoid me? Put her on the phone."

The other end fell into deathly silence.

The silence lasted too long, weighed too heavy, heavy enough to make Ethan's hand holding the phone begin to tremble uncontrollably.

That inexplicable panic reached its peak in this moment.

"Speak!" Ethan growled.

Finally, Franklin's voice came through again.

This time, his voice carried a trace of grief and indescribable pity:

"Mr. Jones, Sophia can't answer the phone right now."