Angel and I sit in the back of the car, a silence between us that isn't heavy, but filled with a quiet, shared warmth. I'm looking out the window, watching the cold night blur past—streetlights streaking into golden lines, the city a tapestry of shadow and distant, glowing windows.
But my mind isn't here. It's trapped in yesterday.
Yesterday was Mr. David's surgery.
I wanted to go. I should have been there. But the memory of that night—the kiss, the tears, his cold words, forget it—stole all my courage. I couldn't face him.
I sent a text, simple and careful: 'How is Mr. David?'
No reply.
Maybe he's angry. Maybe he's just… busy, drowning in hospital routines and fear.
Maybe he's just overwhelmed.
I couldn't stand the uncertainty, so I did the cowardly, CEO thing: I secretly contacted the head surgeon, Dr. Eric. A discreet inquiry, a generous donation to the cardiac ward 'in appreciation of their excellent care.'
