The Call She Made That He Never Answered (Too Late to Keep Her #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ella

"Ella, tell me the truth. Is your husband good to you?"

My sister's weak voice came through the phone as I huddled under the eaves outside the sanatorium, dodging the rain. New York's early autumn downpour hammered the pavement, sending up bone-chilling spray. I froze, unable to answer.

"Of course. Lucas is loaded." I took a deep breath, forcing lightness into my voice. "The manor's crawling with staff, and the Amex has no limit. Everything's perfect."

Except for one thing.

My husband Lucas didn't love me. Not even close.

The thought hit like a fist to the gut. Pain crashed over me in waves. But I couldn't tell her. Not now. Maya's kidney failure had reached its final stage. Even talking left her breathless. I couldn't pile my miserable marriage on top of that.

But Maya wasn't buying it.

Her reply came edged with suppressed fury. "Then explain why today's news is full of photos of him with Vivian again. Does he give a damn how you feel when you see them? Or does he actually—"

A violent coughing fit cut her off.

Each cough pierced straight through me.

Vivian. Lucas's chief assistant, stunning as any runway model, glued to his side. The tabloids ran wild with them. Those photos had stabbed at me more times than I could count. I kept telling myself Lucas wouldn't cheat, even if he spent more time with her than with me.

But I couldn't upset Maya further. I bit my lip, forcing indifference into my voice. "Maya, you know those gossip rags. They'll twist anything for clicks. Vivian's just his assistant. It's normal for them to interact at formal events. Like having a butler at the manor, it's just work."

But what was the truth? I didn't know. Because like Maya, I only learned about my husband's whereabouts through tabloid headlines.

Maya's voice came back, heavy with disappointment. "Fine. Let's say it's work. But with this storm, he couldn't even send a car to bring you home?"

My throat locked up.

New York's weather was hell today. Rain so heavy that even pressed against the wall, half my body was soaked through. The cold had me shaking uncontrollably.

Any normal person would call to check in on family. But my phone screen stayed dead silent. He knew I visited Saint Heart Sanatorium every weekend to see Maya. But he didn't care if I had an umbrella, didn't care if I'd make it back safely.

Two years of marriage, and his indifference had seeped into my bones.

"I have a driver," I said, digging my nails into my palm. "Lucas is swamped with work..."

"Ella!" Maya's voice spiked, cutting me off.

I froze. All my excuses died in my throat. Maya raised me. Nobody could spot my lies better. She was too smart—she'd probably pieced together the truth from the scraps long ago.

My tongue felt wooden. I didn't know how to end this suffocating call.

"Ella!"

Someone shouted my name. Through the black curtain of rain, a figure ran toward me, umbrella raised, splashing through puddles.

I grabbed the lifeline. "Hear that? My driver's here."

Two seconds of silence. Then Maya sighed, deep and heavy. "Good."

I hit end.

The person with the umbrella reached me. In the dim light, a young, clean-cut face appeared. Joe, the sanatorium director's son. Three years younger than me, with warm hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners when he looked at you. Everyone at Saint Heart Sanatorium loved him.

He tilted the umbrella toward me, eyes widening. "I can't believe it's really you! Where's your ride?"

I swiped the rain from my face, forcing a smile. "Had a driver, but he broke down halfway. Calling an Uber."

Joe's brow furrowed, worry flooding his eyes. "The sanatorium's too far out. No driver's taking rides in this storm."

"Maybe one will," I said, clinging to hope. "I can wait."

"And if no one shows? How long are you planning to stand here?"

My throat closed.

"Ella. I've known you three years—since your first day as a care aide. You've always been like this. Never want to trouble anyone." Joe sighed, his tone carrying gentle reproach. "But in weather this brutal, you should have your husband pick you up. Rockefeller Manor isn't far from here."

I knew. That's why Maya was at Saint Heart Sanatorium.

But...

"Lucas won't come."

The words slipped out before I could think. The next second I realized what I'd exposed.

Joe said nothing. He stared at me through the rain, those warm eyes filling with pity I couldn't bear—and something else I couldn't read. I turned away, dodging his gaze in humiliation.

"If he doesn't cherish you, why did he marry you?"

I bit my lip. Joe's heartbroken question cut deeper than any harsh judgment.

Why had I married Lucas? Because it was an arranged marriage with no choice involved.

Two years ago, I was just a care aide at Saint Heart Sanatorium.

During a hostage situation targeting old Mr. Rockefeller, everyone ran screaming.

Only I stood in front of old Mr. Rockefeller's wheelchair—his legs were paralyzed.

Not because of some grand sacrifice. My meager professional integrity as a care aide kicked in, that's all.

If Mr. Rockefeller's grandson hadn't shown up with security, a bullet would've blown through my skull.

After it ended, Mr. Rockefeller held my hand and called me the kindest girl he'd ever met. Then he asked if I'd marry his grandson, Lucas Rockefeller.

God! It was the most absurd joke I'd ever heard.

Lucas Rockefeller. One of Manhattan's most powerful men.

The one-night stand of every socialite's dreams. The first time he visited his grandfather at the sanatorium, half the girls there switched their crush to him.

Me included. So when Lucas went along with his grandfather's proposal and offered to cover all of Maya's medical expenses if I married him—

I sold myself without hesitation. I had no choice. Maya's crushing medical debt was driving us insane.

At first, I held a secret thread of hope for this marriage.

But Lucas quickly showed me through his actions that to him, this marriage was just a way to appease his grandfather.

He wanted Mr. Rockefeller to stop being angry with him, to return to the family manor, and to protect his health.

As for who his wife was, he didn't care.

"These blocks have gotten dangerous lately. Several drug-fueled robberies already."

Joe's urgent voice yanked me back to reality.

"You have to call Lucas. God, it's his duty as your husband."

Under Joe's stubborn stare, a throbbing headache hit. I knew him too well. If I didn't give in, this stubborn Good Samaritan would stand in the rain with that umbrella all night.

I stiffly pulled out my phone, typed in the number I knew by heart, but couldn't press dial.

"Are you afraid of disturbing your husband?" Joe asked, incredulous.

If only it were that simple. I smiled bitterly and hit call.

The sharp ring cut through the rain, each second of waiting stretched eternal, until the familiar message played: "Hello, this is Lucas Rockefeller. I'm unavailable right now. Please leave your name, company, and reason for calling..."

I lowered the phone. My mood sank lower. I'd heard this busy signal countless times over two years. Each one a silent mockery of how little I mattered to Lucas.

"Told you. He won't answer." I looked up at Joe, eyes burning, still clinging to dignity.

I'd proven my point to Joe. I just hoped he'd understand how wrecked my marriage was.

Joe's face flashed with helplessness and regret. "I'm sorry, Ella. I didn't mean to..." He stopped abruptly, clearly not knowing how to finish.

This was why I fought so hard to hide this marriage. I didn't want that look—the look you'd give the world's most pathetic victim. I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing back the tears threatening to spill.

I couldn't stay any longer. I'd said too much to Joe. I felt humiliated. I hurried through goodbyes and took the black umbrella he insisted I have. Joe's dorm was a few minutes' walk. For me, hiking back in this godforsaken storm would take at least an hour.

Two miles felt like an exercise in good weather.

But on this rain-soaked night, it was endless torture.

Within minutes, I was drenched. My flats filled with water, each step heavy as dragging a lead weight.

I kept refreshing the ride app, jacking the tip to ten times normal, but not a single taxi icon appeared on the map.

A private car tore through the rain, and I glimpsed a family of three inside, warm light, dry comfort.

I felt my strength drain away. I stood frozen in the freezing water.

I'd imagined scenes like that once. A husband who came home from work. Maybe a kid someday. We'd fight over small things, then make up on the couch. But the heartbreaking reality was far more absurd. Two years married, and I could count on one hand how many times I'd seen my legal husband.

Work was his entire world.

Always overtime, always traveling, always in endless international meetings.

Every night, he'd return to the manor long after I'd fallen asleep, bringing cold air with him.

When I woke each morning, only the wrinkled sheets confirmed he'd been there at all.

The past two months, he'd stopped even that hollow gesture.

Lost in thought, I missed a hidden dip. My foot slipped, body lurching out of control. My knee slammed into the pavement.

Phone and umbrella flew. I lay exposed to the downpour. Sharp pain radiated from my knee. Blood mixed with mud streamed from the torn flesh. I tried to push myself up, but the slightest muscle movement sent blackness across my vision.

I couldn't even cry. I dragged my injured leg, scrambling to retrieve the umbrella and phone.

Grief and despair finally broke through like a dam bursting. With trembling hands, I pressed that bone-deep familiar number again.