Too Late to Call Me Yours

When Claire lost their unborn child, Ethan was in Finland—with another woman.

He didn’t ask why she had gone to the hospital. He only demanded that she visit his mother, surrender their bedroom to his beautiful colleague, and stop “making a scene.”

Then he destroyed the last piece of art Claire’s mother had left behind and locked Claire in a room while she begged him to take her to the hospital.

So Claire left her engagement ring on the counter and disappeared.

By the time Ethan learned the truth, she had already built a new life beneath the northern lights.

Now he is ready to sacrifice everything to win her back.

But some apologies arrive after love is already gone.

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"Claire, the care home says you didn't visit my mother yesterday. What's going on with you?"

Ethan's call came at five in the morning.

Northern Finland was two hours ahead of London. He lived on the local schedule and was already up before dawn.

I lay on a hotel bed with three folded towels beneath me.

The bleeding hadn't fully stopped.

The doctor said I needed at least five days of bed rest after the miscarriage, but I hadn't dared go back to what was supposed to be our home. I was afraid of seeing the blood on the bathroom floor from where I'd collapsed, or of the care home calling to say Margaret needed me again to sign forms, deliver medication, or take her to an appointment.

For six years, I had barely had a real day of rest.

My abdomen cramped in waves, and every breath tasted like rust.

On the other end, his voice grew more and more irritated. "Why are you being so careless about her now? What if something happens? The care home says you haven't shown up for two days straight. You didn't even bring her the scarf she always wears."

"I was at the hospital yesterday. I couldn't make it."

He paused.

"Are you sick?"

Twenty-seven hours later, he had finally asked.

I clutched the edge of the blanket, drew a shaking breath, and tried to tell him that the baby we had fought so hard for was gone.

"Ethan, our—"

A bright voice rang out from the other end of the line.

"My father says he's going to check the old reindeer migration routes today. Didn't you say you've been wanting to shoot more winter footage? If we don't leave now, the guide will go without us."

She spoke in Finnish, her tone breezy, her voice still soft with sleep.

Ethan's tone shifted almost instantly, turning gentle. "All right. Wait for me downstairs."

"It's windy out. Change out of that thin jacket. Wear my gray windbreaker. I don't want your hands hurting from the cold again. You still have silver work to do this afternoon."

"Got it," Freya said with a laugh.

Only when she had moved out of earshot did he speak to me again, his voice dropping. "You said you went to the hospital. What's wrong with you?"

I loosened my grip on the wrinkled blanket and stared up at the harsh white light overhead.

"Nothing."

An impatient click of his tongue came through the phone. "Every time I ask, you do this. You won't say what's actually wrong, and then somehow I'm the one who doesn't care."

"Fine, have it your way. But you're going to the care home today. And I'm bringing Freya to London in three days to shoot a promotional piece for the museum. It's her first time away from Lapland for so long, and she doesn't do well in unfamiliar cities. The guest room faces the street and it's too noisy at night. Clear out the master bedroom, the one facing the garden, and give it to her."

My grip tightened around the phone.

"The master bedroom is ours."

"Claire, can you not be so petty?" His voice was pure reproach. "You grew up in London. What difference does it make which room you sleep in? Freya is coming all that way to support my research. It's her first time traveling so far. She's a light sleeper, she gets anxious easily. You're the woman of this house. Can't you show her a little consideration? Besides, it's only for a few days. Once the shoot's done, she'll leave."

I closed my eyes. The pain in my abdomen surged upward in waves, and cold sweat slid from my temples into my hair.

There was a time I would have argued with him over something like this until dawn.

I would have asked why a girl he'd known for less than a year deserved more consideration than the fiancée who'd stood by him for six.

I would have hung up and opened our message thread over and over, typing accusations and deleting them every time.

Now I didn't even have the strength to explain.

"Fine. Give her the master bedroom."

On the other end, Ethan was clearly pleased by my surrender.

He let out a small, self-satisfied hum. "See? Was that so hard? You always have to make a scene over every little thing."

"Change the sheets and duvet cover. Freya doesn't like sleeping in bedding someone else has used. And clear out the right side of the wardrobe. Her traditional garments can't be crushed."

He hung up without waiting for a reply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The line went dead.

I stared at the ceiling. My eyes stung, dry and raw, but not a single tear fell.

My phone screen lit up.

An email from HR sat at the top of my notifications:

"Ms. Bennett, your transfer to the Helsinki Design Archive has been approved. Report date: seven days from now. Please confirm that this timeline works. If you need to postpone, submit a request within forty-eight hours."

I typed back two words.

"No changes."

Then I called the care home and paid Margaret's fees for the next six months in full. I compiled the contact information for her doctor, nursing supervisor, and Ethan's assistant, and sent it all to him.

It was the last time I would clean up after him.