Chapter 39
This wing of the hospital seems eerily quiet, only the hum of the vending machine and my breathing that's too loud.
But I am here, so I knock and don't wait. The wanting suddenly outweighs the courtesy, and my hand twists the handle before the echo has even faded.
The room is dark, the only light the cold pulse of a computer screen that paints his face in the most melancholic blue.
He doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge me. Just sits there, the light of the city a bleeding backdrop behind him, shoulders hunched.
God, he looks ruined. Worse, he's so utterly still.
"Are you busy?" My voice barely makes it out, and his head snaps toward me like I yanked him from water.
For a long moment, he just takes me in, expressionless as I hover by the door.
"No. Never busy for you," he says then.
I step inside slowly, letting the door click shut behind me. The little bag on my shoulder slides off my arm next to some drawers.
He doesn't even glance at it, drinking me in, unblinking. Like if he blinks, I might not be there. Like it happened to him before.
"It's me," I whisper, smiling faintly. "I'm here."
His hands flex on the arms of the chair, like he's restraining himself to reach for me with sheer willpower.
My own ache is unbearable, too. Seeing him like this, I want to touch him, slide into his lap, and tell him he isn't alone.
But I came here for a reason, so instead, I take a tentative step forward and my voice comes out thin, "Why are you here? They told me your shift ended four hours ago."
He blinks at his watch, frowns, then looks back at me, and his eyes are not only tired but torn.
"Time is fluid when you're missing someone."
That leaves me frozen on him, trying to find the first word.
"You can't look at me like that," he says.
I frown. "How?"
"Like that." His hand drags along his creased face. "Like you're hurting for me. Not here. Not now. I've had the worst week. A patient just died. You're gone from my life. I'm—"
"Your patient died?"
"Yeah." His head drops, shoulders folding inward as he drags a breath through his open mouth. "I watched his vitals crash right in front of me."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"He was only thirty. Had his whole life ahead of him." His voice drops lower, almost flat. "It's not even death that gets me anymore—I see it every day. Sometimes it feels... respectful, almost. Polite."
He looks up at me then, eyes tired in a way that makes my throat tighten.
"I watched him fade for a week," he says quietly. "A week of that light dimming behind his eyes slowly, inevitably, until it just... went out." His jaw works once. "And I kept thinking... I know that feeling."
My face falls and I can't help myself—I cross to him, wanting to see him clearly.
He looks up at me and shakes his head. Then, almost smiling, he says, "You look so beautiful, baby."
I set my face into neutral and lean over the edge of the table with my arms crossed. "Ben, I need to know what happened."
He nods and takes a deep breath. "I swear I had no idea.
It's like some evil prank, I don't even know what to call it.
" He swallows thickly. "The first thing I told Lisa when I got back was that I wanted a divorce.
I told her I'd give her millions just to let us be happy.
Thought she'd take it and walk away, but she broke, started crying, and then she told me. "
"Why did she tell you now? If it's true you slept with her last time before the tent, it's three months in," I say skeptically.
He throws me an offended look. "It is true. The last time I was with her was before we even kissed. I wouldn't lie to you about something like that."
"Then are you sure she's pregnant? That she just didn't make it up?"
He pauses for a second, face giving it away before he confirms it with a slow nod. "Yeah. I've seen the baby."
He has seen the baby... I swallow hard and hope I can manage not to show what that does to me.
"I guess it does make sense now why she would be so overly emotional over your break-up," I mutter.
"Yeah," he says, his mouth twisting. "She was keeping it a secret the whole time, so I had no idea, but that's why I disappeared—I went to the hospital and took all the tests with her.
Then had to deal with her emotionally." He drags in a breath while staring outside the window.
"I still couldn't believe it until it was right there, in front of my eyes. "
"Why did she keep it a secret, though?"
"Lisa has body-weight issues; had miscarriages before—"
"Miscarriages?" It shoots out of me as I raise my brow.
"Not with me," he rushes out when he sees my sharp look. "With her ex. She always had issues and it was scarring for her, so she wanted to make sure that she passed at least the first trimester before she felt safe telling anyone."
The screen of his computer goes dark, and it feels fitting—the light dying in me.
I swallow hard and shove the mouse to wake the screen. "Continue."
"I know I shouldn't say this, it won't fix anything, you might even hate me more..." he says haltingly, then forces the rest out, "but when I was last with her, I didn't see Lisa, but you. I swear to God, it was you in my head."
My lungs decide to take a sharp breath on their own. My face goes flat, and for some reason, it only makes me angrier.
"Yeah, that sure as hell does not help me now," I snap.
"I know," he says, voice low. "I'm sorry."
I grip the edge of the table and take in his fractured face, staring at him blankly.
"Emma, please, say something," he says after a moment.
"I hate you," I whisper, trying my best not to break. Then my voice sinks even lower, thinner. "I hate you so much."
He slides closer on the chair, desperation snapping whatever restraint he had left, but he doesn't touch me.
"I hate myself so much, you have no idea," he says genuinely. "I'm bad news. You should not be with me."
"Yeah." I give him a sharp nod. "I know that."
He pinches the bridge of his nose, shakes his head.
"The thing is, I saw you with Richard in the lobby, and I realized you're his wife.
That we're done. No future for us. Then I sent you all those messages in the days after because I wanted to talk about everything, but you didn't reply, and I thought you didn't care, which was killing me—" He notices my pursed lips and sighs.
His voice becomes more urgent. "I'm not blaming you.
I'm just trying to make you understand what was on my mind. "
He can't help himself—he catches my hand and kisses my knuckle. When I don't pull away, he kisses another one, and then another... until he presses his mouth on my palm. "I would never sabotage what we have. Can you at least tell me you believe me?"
I drag in a long breath and my face breaks. "Yeah. I know you didn't."
He drops his head against my waist, forehead pressed to me like he's bowing, and his hands settle at my hips. Then his eyes lift to mine, searching.
"I know I shouldn't," he says, almost to himself, but he's already opening my coat.
One button.
Then another.
Each click slow.
"You should stop me..." he says, running his fingers down.
"I should," I snap. But I don't.
Instead, I watch the certain drag of his fingers, the way he looks at me with those thick lashes and dark eyes, and my breath hitches.
The last button gives.
He parts the coat open—
"Oh shit..."
He pulls in a breath, eyes tracing every inch of me in the black satin wrap-dress under. It's tight, short, and the neckline plunges so low it barely contains my breasts.
I know I could have worn something else, but the self-saboteur in me picked this one.
"Emma, you can't do this to me," he says, but he's already rising, towering over me as his hands land on my hips, making me sit and sliding me back on the table.
"You're evil," he says, voice wrecked, and slips the coat from my shoulders. "I haven't had you in two weeks."
I give him a slow, careless shrug, eyes on him the whole time, like I'm daring him to do something about it. "You opened it without my permission. Consider that your punishment."
One brow lifts, intrigued. "Punishment?" He watches me for a beat. "Does that mean I'm not allowed to touch you?"
My chest heaves, and it would be to my detriment to say anything, so I just shake my head.
"Oh." Something in his face changes—a little flicker of challenge that wasn't there before.
His fingers find my chin, tilting my face up the way they always do before he kisses me. "So this isn't allowed?"
I shake my head weakly and mutter a breathy, "No. Not allowed."
He gives me a faint, knowing smile, and the air between us grows thicker.
Then his thumbs trace slow, firm circles on my thighs, over and over, coaxing a shiver I wish I could hide, but it shows all over my skin.
"What about this?" he murmurs.
I shoot him a sharp glare and smack his hand away. "Definitely not allowed. Get away."
He studies me, jaw flexing like he's trying to contain something. Then he leans in and stops just shy of my lips, the two of us breathing the same air.
Instinctively, I move my leg up, bracing against his strong torso, trying to push him with my knee, but he stays put.
Instead, he glances at my foot, then back at me and his mouth curves. His voice comes out low. "Now, you're the one who's touching me, Emma."
I realize my ankle is wedged between his thighs, and he’s already hardening beneath me.
His mouth lowers to my throat, brushing the air above my skin, not quite touching, but those almost-kisses somehow hotter than the real thing.
I tilt my head back, offering him my chest, and his thumbs slip under my cleavage, tugging my dress and bra down until my breasts spill out.
He bends to lick and lap at my nipples immediately, his warm tongue teasing as he squeezes the swell of my breasts. When I look at him he drags his hands away and plants them obediently on the table, like he's reminding himself of the rules he's already breaking.