Chapter 2

I didn't sleep a wink. Between the heartbreak and standing in the freezing hallway, it was no surprise I fell ill.

By the next morning, my temperature had spiked to 103.1°F.

I forced myself out of bed. Looking at my paper-white face in the mirror, I let out a hollow, mocking laugh.

Hearing me move, Harry pushed the bedroom door open.

The moment he saw me, his brow twitched with a barely concealed grimace. But he quickly buried the annoyance under his usual fake concern.

"How did you let it get this bad?" He walked over, his voice laced with perfunctory blame. "I told you to dress warmer, but you never listen. Come on, I'll take you to the hospital."

Half an hour later, we arrived at a crowded public NHS hospital.

The lobby was packed. The stifling air reeked of cheap bleach and stale sweat, making it hard to breathe.

My legs gave out. I swayed, nearly collapsing onto the linoleum floor.

"Just sit on those plastic chairs and wait. I'll go queue up."

Harry dumped me in a corner and marched off toward a line that looked endless.

I slumped against the hard plastic seat, my brain burning with fever, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood just to stay conscious.

I don't know how much time passed before a commotion broke out near the entrance.

I looked up. A woman in designer heels was walking in, her eyes red. She was beautiful, radiating a fragile, wounded aura that practically demanded protection.

It was Emma. The first love Harry could never get over.

The second she appeared, Harry—who was already halfway to the front of the registration line—abandoned his spot without a second thought.

He shoved through the crowd like a madman and rushed to her side.

"Emma! When did you get back? Why are you at the hospital? What happened?!"

Harry grabbed her shoulders, his voice shaking with raw, undisguised panic.

In five years, I had never seen him lose control like this.

"Harry?" Emma looked up, tears rolling down her cheeks like pearls from a broken string.

She pitifully lifted her right hand.

"I just got off the plane this morning. I was making coffee at the hotel and... it hurts so much, Harry."

I watched with cold, detached eyes. The burn was the size of a coin. It was slightly red. There wasn't even a blister.

But that tiny red mark was enough to make Harry's eyes turn red, too.

He carefully cradled her hand, bowing his head to blow on it gently.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I've got you. Let me see."

He looked as focused and devastated as if she had taken a bullet to the chest.

He had completely forgotten that his girlfriend was currently burning up at 103.1°F, barely able to stand.

Emma naturally leaned into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Then, her gaze drifted over Harry's shoulder and landed precisely on me in the corner.

She recognized me. Obviously.

But instead of pulling away, she buried her face deeper into his embrace, a subtle smirk playing on her lips.

"This NHS place is a dump. It's filthy," Harry said, holding her tight, his voice thick with anxiety. "Come on, I'm taking you to my buddy's private clinic in Mayfair."

"But... didn't you have something to do here today?" Emma asked, her voice dripping with fake innocence.

"It's nothing. Nothing is important right now. Let's go."

With that, Harry kept his arm securely around her waist and walked straight toward the exit.

From start to finish, he didn't look back at me once.

In that moment, the truth finally crystallized in my mind. From now on, I didn't need anyone.

Half an hour later, I sat alone in the freezing IV drip room.

A nurse walked over with a clipboard, adjusted my drip rate, and asked casually, "Honey, you're burning up. Where's your boyfriend? Why isn't anyone here with you?"

I leaned my head back against the wall. The image of Harry walking away with Emma flashed in my mind.

And just like that, I buried five years of feelings in the dirt. My eyes turned to pure ice.

"He's dead."