Chapter 4

Before leaving for Miami, I had one last errand: going to the DMV to renew my driver's license and update my address.

I needed it done before the move.

That afternoon, I drove toward the DMV downtown.

As my car merged onto the overpass, my mind drifted to the weather in Miami.

The portfolio the Andersons sent mentioned it was warm year-round. No harsh winters.

That was good. I hated New York winters. Too long. Too cold.

Then came the deafening crash.

Boom!

A massive force slammed into the rear passenger side of my car. The seatbelt violently dug into my shoulder, and the pain was so blinding my vision went black.

The airbags deployed instantly, filling my lungs with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

The car flipped onto its side. I was suspended upside down, blood trickling down my forehead and dripping onto the roof.

Someone was pounding on the window.

"Ma'am! Ma'am, are you okay?!"

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

The agonizing pain radiating from my left arm told me it was broken.

When the paramedics finally pulled me from the wreckage, I caught a glimpse of the car that had hit me.

The driver's side door was pried open, and a young woman was being helped out.

She was clutching her stomach, her face pale.

It was Isabella.

She didn't look badly hurt.

As I was loaded onto the stretcher, my left arm bent at a sickening angle. A paramedic shouted, "Suspected fracture, possible internal bleeding! Let's move!"

The lights in the hospital corridor were blindingly white.

I was wheeled into the ER for a barrage of scans.

The doctor said I had a fractured left arm, a concussion, and they were ruling out internal bleeding.

After the scans, I was wheeled back out into the hallway to wait for the results.

That was when I heard the frantic, heavy footsteps.

Ethan sprinted into the lobby. His hair was a mess, his shirt buttoned wrong, his face slick with sweat.

He grabbed the nearest nurse.

"Isabella?! Where is she? The car crash—she's pregnant! She..."

The nurse pointed to a nearby exam room.

"Mr. Harrison? Isabella is in Room 3. She's just a bit shaken up with some minor scrapes. The baby is fine for now. Don't worry..."

"Thank God. Thank God..."

He muttered it like a prayer. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he grabbed the nurse again.

"There was another woman! Charlotte Mitchell. Where is she? How is she?"

The nurse checked her chart.

"Ms. Mitchell has a fractured left arm, a concussion, and we are ruling out internal bleeding. She needs to be admitted for observation."

A flash of conflict crossed Ethan's face, so brief it was almost impossible to catch.

Then he turned and sprinted toward Room 3.

Lying on the stretcher, I watched him burst through that door and pull a crying, terrified Isabella into his arms.

"It's okay, I'm here, you're safe..."

His muffled voice drifted through the door.

I closed my eyes.

The shattered bone in my arm throbbed with a blinding, piercing agony.

A doctor walked over and wheeled me into a private room.

I lay there for a while before using my good hand to fish my phone out of my pocket.

I opened my chat with Ethan. His last message from the night before read:

Charlie, give us one more chance. I swear I'll handle it properly this time.

I scrolled up.

Seven years of history. Tens of thousands of messages.

From Good morning to Good night. From What do you want for dinner? to I miss you.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Until the doctor came in to go over my discharge instructions.

I listened quietly, then spoke.

"I'm checking out."

My voice was hoarse, but absolute.

The doctor tried to talk me out of it, but eventually gave up, prescribing painkillers and strictly ordering a follow-up.

I left the hospital, went home, and packed my bags.

I had my lawyer box up everything Ethan had given me over the years and ship it to him, along with the formal notice terminating the engagement.

I said goodbye to my parents and called an Uber to the airport.

The terminal was practically empty.

I checked in, got through security, and sat down at my gate.

My left arm was in a heavy cast and supported by a sling across my chest, drawing a few stares from passersby.

I ignored them. I pulled my phone out of my purse and turned it on.

Dozens of missed calls. Hundreds of texts. All from Ethan.

The last one was sent ten minutes ago:

Charlie, where are you?! Your parents said you left! Pick up the phone! We need to talk!

I tapped the text box. My thumb hovered over the screen.

Finally, I typed two words:

Don't bother.

I hit send, blocked his number, and powered off the phone. The second the screen went black, the intercom announced boarding for my flight.

Chapter 4

Before leaving for Miami, I had one last errand: going to the DMV to renew my driver's license and update my address.

I needed it done before the move.

That afternoon, I drove toward the DMV downtown.

As my car merged onto the overpass, my mind drifted to the weather in Miami.

The portfolio the Andersons sent mentioned it was warm year-round. No harsh winters.

That was good. I hated New York winters. Too long. Too cold.

Then came the deafening crash.

Boom!

A massive force slammed into the rear passenger side of my car. The seatbelt violently dug into my shoulder, and the pain was so blinding my vision went black.

The airbags deployed instantly, filling my lungs with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

The car flipped onto its side. I was suspended upside down, blood trickling down my forehead and dripping onto the roof.

Someone was pounding on the window.

"Ma'am! Ma'am, are you okay?!"

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

The agonizing pain radiating from my left arm told me it was broken.

When the paramedics finally pulled me from the wreckage, I caught a glimpse of the car that had hit me.

The driver's side door was pried open, and a young woman was being helped out.

She was clutching her stomach, her face pale.

It was Isabella.

She didn't look badly hurt.

As I was loaded onto the stretcher, my left arm bent at a sickening angle. A paramedic shouted, "Suspected fracture, possible internal bleeding! Let's move!"

The lights in the hospital corridor were blindingly white.

I was wheeled into the ER for a barrage of scans.

The doctor said I had a fractured left arm, a concussion, and they were ruling out internal bleeding.

After the scans, I was wheeled back out into the hallway to wait for the results.

That was when I heard the frantic, heavy footsteps.

Ethan sprinted into the lobby. His hair was a mess, his shirt buttoned wrong, his face slick with sweat.

He grabbed the nearest nurse.

"Isabella?! Where is she? The car crash—she's pregnant! She..."

The nurse pointed to a nearby exam room.

"Mr. Harrison? Isabella is in Room 3. She's just a bit shaken up with some minor scrapes. The baby is fine for now. Don't worry..."

"Thank God. Thank God..."

He muttered it like a prayer. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he grabbed the nurse again.

"There was another woman! Charlotte Mitchell. Where is she? How is she?"

The nurse checked her chart.

"Ms. Mitchell has a fractured left arm, a concussion, and we are ruling out internal bleeding. She needs to be admitted for observation."

A flash of conflict crossed Ethan's face, so brief it was almost impossible to catch.

Then he turned and sprinted toward Room 3.

Lying on the stretcher, I watched him burst through that door and pull a crying, terrified Isabella into his arms.

"It's okay, I'm here, you're safe..."

His muffled voice drifted through the door.

I closed my eyes.

The shattered bone in my arm throbbed with a blinding, piercing agony.

A doctor walked over and wheeled me into a private room.

I lay there for a while before using my good hand to fish my phone out of my pocket.

I opened my chat with Ethan. His last message from the night before read:

Charlie, give us one more chance. I swear I'll handle it properly this time.

I scrolled up.

Seven years of history. Tens of thousands of messages.

From Good morning to Good night. From What do you want for dinner? to I miss you.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Until the doctor came in to go over my discharge instructions.

I listened quietly, then spoke.

"I'm checking out."

My voice was hoarse, but absolute.

The doctor tried to talk me out of it, but eventually gave up, prescribing painkillers and strictly ordering a follow-up.

I left the hospital, went home, and packed my bags.

I had my lawyer box up everything Ethan had given me over the years and ship it to him, along with the formal notice terminating the engagement.

I said goodbye to my parents and called an Uber to the airport.

The terminal was practically empty.

I checked in, got through security, and sat down at my gate.

My left arm was in a heavy cast and supported by a sling across my chest, drawing a few stares from passersby.

I ignored them. I pulled my phone out of my purse and turned it on.

Dozens of missed calls. Hundreds of texts. All from Ethan.

The last one was sent ten minutes ago:

Charlie, where are you?! Your parents said you left! Pick up the phone! We need to talk!

I tapped the text box. My thumb hovered over the screen.

Finally, I typed two words:

Don't bother.

I hit send, blocked his number, and powered off the phone. The second the screen went black, the intercom announced boarding for my flight.