Chapter 3

3

I barely slept that night, my fever spiking and dropping like a roller coaster. Luckily, by the morning, the heat had broken.

Sylvie never came back to the room. I was hobbling to the billing desk when my phone finally rang.

"Fletcher, where the hell are you? I brought your favorite breakfast and you're not even in your bed!"

"I'm paying the bill and checking myself out," I answered calmly. The receptionist was already processing my paperwork.

There was a long silence on the other end. She probably finally remembered leaving me alone all night.

"Fine," she said, her voice softening slightly. "Just come home so you can eat."

I dragged my IV pole back to the room, passing a private VIP suite on the way. Through the glass, I saw Sylvie carefully applying ointment to Cillian's back.

I went back to my room, took out my phone, and ordered a plain bowl of oatmeal. Then, I pulled up my contacts and asked a friend for the name of a good divorce lawyer.

Two hours later, Sylvie finally showed up at my bedside. She saw the empty takeout container and her face immediately darkened.

"Why did you eat already? I went all the way home to make you soup from scratch."

She opened a container of thick, greasy stew. It was filled with mushrooms and eggs―things she knew I couldn't touch.

I pushed it away without looking up. "Ordering in was faster."

I paused, then added, "And I can't eat that. I'm allergic to eggs, remember?"

I had told her a hundred times, but she never bothered to listen. She froze for a second, then gave a fake, awkward laugh.

She didn't start an argument for once. She just picked up the container and checked her watch. "Let's go. I'll give you a ride home."